all of these things haiku

all of these things, they
come and they go.  nothing to
do but love, love, love.

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Walking Home

Between black soil and platinum
sky, the first August chill gathers
on our skin.  Earth ripe

with muck and spore
beneath our summer shoes, we trip
down the creek-less

wash where not one drop
has flowed all season.  But here,
there is a promise

inside this rain that dapples
our bare arms and saturates
each thirsty breath.  The promise,

it is life,
and despite
the slip and chill,

it is what we choose reverently
with each
muddied

step.