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Monday, May 08, 2017

Muse Astir

      first book I read was a river behind our house,
behind a wood that went down to its waters;
there between her skirts I'd spend the day
combing through her hair, where on pages
dappled with highlights of sun and sparkling

      bright hands lost in the dirt
I'd feel ants gently bite skin, catching
fingers like fishes in the stillness of playing
before grandmother would come looking,
worried the river would lead me astray.

      I always wanted to follow the river
to see if it would take me to its source,
and did its flow have an end?
For every dreamer knows
of its course: Rivers are endless

      corridors poured into larger waters
bringing you back to where you first
began unchanged, changing your lines,
seeing your reflections stir
as if for the first time.

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