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It’s an Old Story

by Greg Watson



Last night in your sleep, a low humming

sound mingled with your breathing,

like wind moving through hollow reeds

along the lip of an ancient river.

I must have loved you even then,

when I was still mostly rain and cloud

trembling with the weight of gravity,

uncertain where to fall.



It's an old story: the unfathomable wind

stretched thin between the leaves,

cracked eaves and windowpanes humming

with the turning of the earth;

and here below, two small bodies

folded upon the prayer mat of the bed,

where all our days run suddenly into one

and all we say is spoken by breath.

Nothing more. But nothing less.