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Hora Tertia

by Madeline Mysko 06-04-2014
A poem

(Ricardo Reitmeyer / Shutterstock)

On the monastery walk,
in the clear daylight after
the night of heavy rain,

I consider the moonflower:
how the big spent blooms look like
three linen tea towels rinsed and wrung out,
three yellowed towels someone meant to
pin to the line to dry.