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Friday, May 23, 2008

Sonnet CXLIV

In spring, the birds are chirping nervously
because the winter’s bite is icy still.

In summer, birds enchant the warmth with glee
with songs of celebration, runs and trills.

In autumn, many birds prepare to flee
and those remaining feel the mounting chill.

In winter, hidden all around their trees,
the birds are silent – frozen at their bills.

And even when their songs are shrill and short
because a touch of coldness gnaws their wings,
they cheer me, hanging from the high-up wire.
The blending of the many different sorts
of sound they blissfully and daily sing
relay a pure intent with bright desire.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!