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I don't think I'm ready to write poems for you, she whispered,
quietly,
lovingly,
voice dripping down like water droplets on leaves on a cold spring morning while the sun peeks over her window.
The sun was groggy,
half hidden behind clouds,
but we were full as the moon: heavy, as she sunk soundlessly into her crib.
The sand feels less forgiving when it's cold, she said, but at least we are less forgotten.
The trees held us until we were only pebbles along the shore, rocking against Mother Earth,
until her body was wrapped into mine,
and I finally felt the drums begin to sound.
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July 10, 2013
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