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Sunday, September 14, 2008


I spy a certain death amidst those barren trees,
for winter’s stripped their life with such a bitter whip.
Of late, their leaves have fled, replace with bitter sticks;
their luscious bark now roughened by the wintry breeze.
If I should cross their criss-cross path about my knees,
I’d rip their branches to a mince and they would rip
my precious skin to blood. Entangled limb to limb,
my blood – as well, their arms – would fall beyond my feet.

I’d pick it up, my blood, so desolate and red,
I’d pick them up the sticks, and toss them overhead.

They’d fall again; I’d gather them, the wooden hands,
and hold them, recollecting loss to recreate.
As if performing divination, then I’d wait
and count my grievances while gathering the land.

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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!