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The Wicker Chronicles: Essays, Poetry, Short Fiction
Monday, 23 May 2005

He finds me when I am not looking,
the soft footstep at the threshold of my senses

an embrace of apple blossoms humming with bees,
murmuring all languages that have ever been spoken

Oh quickened tongue made of light and earth,
voice of star and root, wave and leaf

He comes to me when I am not seeing,
the honey glow of light from behind the door

Here is the expectant coil of green beneath the snow,
beneath the burn, beneath the stone

Here is warm and sun on skin again after night,
after grief, after sorrow

Posted by blog/wicker_chronicles at 12:01 AM CDT
Updated: Monday, 23 May 2005 4:24 PM CDT
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Friday, 27 May 2005 - 12:43 PM CDT

Name: Wandering Willow
Home Page:

I came here from RLP. Gorgeous poetry! Gorgeous rich writing in every post. I'm glad to have found you.

As a fellow human being, I feel ashamed of what that doctor and receptionist did to you. But I'm ashamed of what happens to all of us, when we're not valued, not seen with real eyes. All we can do is wake up to ourselves, one at a time, and then wake up gradually to everyone else.

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