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Learning to Read The lake is steeped in meditation, gray silk furrowed by sun-shot clouds, the drowned firs holding their breath. We walk over pine needles and dried leaves as we have always walked but never so drawn into the somber glory of these woods, oaks lifting their naked arms, lichen starring the gnawed off stumps -- as if we were reading breviaries of yielding, of becoming. |
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Issue #29, October, 2002 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.