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What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty. 

     –Mary Oliver

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sun gets in the tea.  i

am a different person each season,

for fall i panicked  and spring

i am smaller, the water is free,

time allowing of

youth once

and for all.  woven rugs hang over a line

between the budding trees.

squirrel would find anything.

south is somewhere, to be found

tomorrow, a meal

after setting forth.

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