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The gift

April 21, 2010

There is a bird

he is calling

this pale morning

his cry wringing

and wrenching the rain from the sky

a sudden silver shower

I rinse my soul clean

and hang it on the line

to fly in the breeze

dry in the breeze

the bird flies away

leaving me standing

nothing to hear

but the dripping of trees

a new day

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From → Poem

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