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my heaven (if alive) will be fourfold—
a quadruple outlay of my new and old
within my mind, the culmination
of my boyhood dreams that maturation
decimated in it's bursting wake—
i hope this four-pronged heaven lives for my own sake.
first, a heaven full of sprouts and buds
of grasses laced with differing muds
from Spring—a blooming tree atop a hill
and through my acts of playful will
i shall climb that mound,
close my eyes, listen to the ground
take its pregnant canto and begin a birth
to awaken the newly-infant Earth.
then i stand atop the hill, look out and see
my second heaven, another realm for me.
i trek across the plains of lively Spring,
approach the sands where i hear the tides sing—
a crisp-blue chorus with soothing song
upon the shore—so warm, so white, so long.
i see the horizon, the sun is bright, unbland,
and rises and falls with word of my command.
across the beach, i gaze and rise again,
approach a wood, untouched by hands of men.
a beaten path, the axis of my third space
where a gentle breeze shall kiss my face—
each branch above sheds itself so bare
as each little leaf rides upon the air.
the path is dry, leavened not with life,
but i can thrive in Autumn's brutal strife.
i tread along the beaten path, unbright
until i see the bricks covered in white.
alas! the fourth begins with pavéd streets—
so slick and black with ice on my uncovered feet.
the lights from windows illuminate each flake
as it falls to the ground for winter's sake.
in the middle of the town, a Christmas tree stands
that i reach out and kiss with chilling hands.
i trek the streets with every note i sing
and walk around until i re-enter Spring.
but these are only heavens if i see
my oldog Sasha trek the land with me.
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