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Tuesday, January 25, 2005


I'm certain leaves mourn
their seeping green,
dripping down,
leaching to ground

and the rain--
scowering above--
starts the decent
fierce, gunning, direct
to grab pieces
of everything it touches

but, my love,
the brown earth
is my fingers
combing, scooping the wet sand.
Dripping, echoing
to the bottom of my bucket
where it is stirring--
it is our green grass
it is our blue blood
and foaming thoughts
striking a chord
striking many
crashing, folding, beating
churning a symphony.


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