Found Poem

We gather things: 
tender buttons, bits of 
string, sea glass, 
chimneysweep soot. 

It’s not the stuff of dreams, 
but it holds us. The murmur 
of morning, the tick
-toxic cluck of clock. 

A wayward word. Some lint 
left over
from yesterday’s storm. 

::
In November, we poem.

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