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You are split-reed, top of a plant, that time between growing new shoots and
shedding woody remains of last season. I pull you in with my hands but
cannot speak - we become this bridge this split reed, reed of flute making,
reed of rejoicing, reed of the warm mat, reed for the hand to feel
sheltered,
reed of what brittle, shakes off into piles, accumulates--ground, beach,
marsh,
blanket lifts over body of water with tide, separating reed, reed of
oneness,
reed that bridges all seasons. How does the blanket tell the new shoots that
it's still part of them. How do I tell you? I presume you know because I
know. |
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