The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Softly into the Night

there is no syrup so sweet as the
witching hour of life when
the wind chimes have settled 
and winter has run its course
when our web of cares unravels
and the hearth embers fade and
finally our bed is cozy
as the roof melts away 
the day stars come out 
to beckon me to one last nod
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