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  • Jørn Earl Otte

"There is an unknown hour" -- April 17, National Poetry Month


There is an unknown hour


that I have passed each day

which will mark the time

I must depart

for the journey of no return.


Shingles on my roof, black and gray,

are covered in fervent green

moss. The gutters are filled with brown

and red leaves from the fallen oak

strewn across the front lawn.


None of us knows the day or hour.

I suspect few would want to know.


Breathing in the lemon thyme

calms my aching body, lavender

relaxes my weary blood vessels.

Sharp oregano open my eyes,

and the wind reminds me of now.


My son kicks the ball against the concrete wall

of the garage, while my daughter slyly

photographs the tiny voles.

My bride is sleeping. This is what it is all about.


I love being.

I hope I get to do it again.


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