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Holy hum of ten thousand cicadas, vibrating their voices in steady song of poems
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Let’s go down where water hums,
down where fronds are fanned,
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She ruches midnight velvet
by candlelight
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whisk of straw broom-wind,
wild and with attempt
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Thou art the voice of your father’s father,
breath of your mother’s mother,
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He said:
Poetry is not work
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I risk sharp edges
for the feel of papyrus
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Stipple and nipple of stunned time
drawn in like smocking on pinafore
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Although I am way beyond child-bearing,
I till soil in preparation for babies’ pursed lips
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Sometimes when I write
I feel myself caving in
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such kind conversation crawls between
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Glittergold bold blossom cramped petals fried
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a fire flicks its last warning
an ash, dances its last flaming flamingo
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tethered to earth, like hawk to hand, I strained against leathery bonds
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a woman gives birth in deepest forest,
cleanses child of its journey,
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I left my favorite plant
out on patio’s planked platform
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before mother died,
there were little flashes of her sunset
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stipple, whipple, sky
holding up a startle of stunned birds
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Faith swung on rusty hinges
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oh hide me, wrap me
in the shelter of anonymity,
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Before a storm, there is this yellow wait;
hair zinging at nape of neck;
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winter’s grip and rip and stippled fear of freezing
solid
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Spirits raise their eyebrows
and on high horizon, angels appear;
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I am in love with sunny days
and you knew it:
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