May
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May

For whatever is let go
There’s a taker.
The living discovers itself
Where no preparation
Was made for it.
Where its only privilege
Is to live if it can.
The window flies from the dark
Into the sunlight
Stained with the green
Of the spring weeds.
The freehold of life:
Triumphant;
Even in the waste
Of those who posses it.
But it is itself the possessor,
We know at last,
Seeing it send out weeds
To take back
Whatever is left.
A beauty
We have less than not
Deserved.

A. Selke

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