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April in Avkland
by Bruce LeSourd
bruce@lesourd.net
Spring has come to the locus amoenus,
coaxing the pale buds open.
The chakram entwines the staff
in a riot of oleander,
in a bed of heather
the Argonauts lie
flush with the sun
setting into lazy evening,
they are quiet
and the land breathes with them
as the evening falls.
Back in the saddle again,
the night fills with soft cries.
Et in Arcadia ego,
even the little death.
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