Those Hours Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

'Those Hours'


Slow steps
across the ground,
heavy with past days
and broken sound.

Stars rise
over the hollow field.
A gentle fire
keeps its small space.

Tears slip
without hurry.
Even the gold sea
moves away.

Spring leans close.
A spark falls.
The world shifts
in quiet flight.

Deep inside,
a journey stirs
— unspoken,
but enough.

Home waits
past the final table,
where poems
flow again
into the dark.








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