Friday, July 30, 2010

A Sense of One's Place

A Sense of One's Place

To stand for just an evening moment
and see the oak, spanish-moss tufted
pinned against a still blue but fading
sky, scraggly, most naked branches,
knobbed and curled, spiky balls of
bromeliad, pierced through on twigs
sea urchins on a thread, is to know
with some assurances how strange
we really are.


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