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by Lee Kiblinger
Drafting
We may find our selves in the slipstream lifted in the wake of the fold’s faith and pain— when it’s not our race but we share its shadow-drag and cling to wings shred in gales lean in the lane’s downstream glide the tide of dove-breaths that whisk the body in a long tack through grief’s strain and stained glass— til belief buoys upon willowed whispers and we are weightless before the fogged shore.
Lee Kiblinger is a teacher and late-blooming poet from Tyler, Texas, where she spends her time devouring novels, grading essays, laughing with three teenagers, and enjoying poems with Rabbit Room poets. Her work can be found in Heart of Flesh, Solum Journal, Ekstasis, The Way Back to Ourselves, Clayjar Review and others. You can read more of her poetry at www.ripplesoflaughter.com.
Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash
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