Ireland, like the color green, is where I belong:
new and old in one vaporous breath, a cauldron of
legend and the eager fire of lore. where incantations
weave over black-bitter beer and kings are lost
in gnarled wars. where slow men fall and women upend,
where reverberating shakes from untold centuries
still feel in every foot path. where paupers become
princes, where anything impossible is made —
this is my land: where hills roll into eternity,
where moments stretch beyond the eye,
where life is a roar, and fortunes cannot be counted.

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Sleepy afternoons
Sidewalk crack

Sleepy afternoons

At the end of days

O Sons and Daughters
Four stained glass panels in a church

O Sons and Daughters

My faith wavers and my investment in church has dried up

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