My scratchy pen is seeding a line
along the curve of this awkwardly tilting earth.
Spring is close to a poem, I guess;
The greening, the daily buds, the awakening brown.
Weary air is draping trees, joining a
freed wind, collecting, randomly dropping.
And we float, the unknown billions, as our
molecular starry selves. Alone, small parts, pieces
bouncing against another. Invisibly solid.
Our incandescent spirits;
Those moving on the other side, who
continue to love us, free of these
burdensome bodies, our beloved cages.
It’s the inconceivable that
is born in secret. Like the stories
we are and how we are our stories.
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