Reaching not for the words connecting us now and hurting us later-
the weave of the uncertain
fodder
but assuredly for the wrong fire-
this heart dances in the palm cradling the world.
Thine eye may grab me yet I walk on without whisper
when my words belie the preciousness
of which we are,
for Song is the effortless nature of a forest brook responding to the rain.

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