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The Beloved listens as I dovetail words into walls and walk in winter landscapes.
None of the alien, snowbanked roads lead home. Even as I speak, the shadows shift across the stones I have tried to mortar into place.
The beloved listens and weaves willow silences into my words.
The quietness of Love builds me a better harbor than words ever could, a place from which to sail, a place to remember on the map I navigate by, where the heart of the compass rose is home.