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Friday, August 08, 2008

Sonnet CCXXI

I call my classmate after trying tricky math.
The other end is clear; I hear their distant voice,
familiar, but far away. They make the choice
to call me back with answers when they’ve done the math.
In silence, night envelops me in shining bath,
that’s interrupted by a silver ringing noise.
With phone in hand, again I hear their helpful voice,
and crude comparisons begin of what we hath.

Anon, I hear the gentle sounds of rustling leaves
of paper, scratching of a pen; about it weaves.

But not as if they were close by, but far away,
contained within a cord directed at my ear.
And am I just the same? Transmitted all the way
to someone’s ear, a prick of sounds that one may hear?

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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!