The Spot

two hands
to hold or to have

with the trees as our witness,

for the sparrows that record our song
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The Tree

There’s a tree which grows on the side of the road.
It stands not alone, nor hidden at the heart of an enchantied woodland.
Ordinary and unassuming, it meekly joins the scattered foliage dotting the local park.

Pass this plant on your trek to work, and notice how you don’t notice it at all.
Listen as it asks no attention of you. Feel the stagnant air as the modest tree
makes no attempt to draw you in. Its aura keeps to itself, taking only the space that its bark requires.

Pass the tree again, however, as you head back home to the warmth of blankets,
the delight and safety of lying down. Pass the tree when the night has fallen, when the sun itself has fallen too.

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Winter Night

If the sky is navy and the sun gives off
a lingering bumblebee glow-
If the snow dares to fall but is too shy to stay,
and you start to sense that you’re alone-

If the village is distant and you’re in the desert-

I see how you feel in my soul,
but what do you hear, and what do you cry?
What secrets do you know?