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November 3, 2008
By madison cyr, Floyds Knobs, IN

She was stone still
What was it she felt?
The thick black eyes
The nose,
Wet and heart shaped
Just a head above the grass
Each step is new
As things come into focus
Each loose leaf
Drifting like an eyelash
After you’ve rubbed your face
My skin is cold and marbled like a baby’s
There’s something so heavy inside me that says,
‘If she leaves,
You’ve failed’
One step
Into the veil of shade-
She darts away
Chased by two fine followers
I move on
Past the red tire tracks
To where the grass is trampled down
Still warm
Still retaining life
From one body to another
It passes
The mouth
Is in the fingertips
Blade by blade
The happiness I found there.
There are some poor pilgrims
Who are dull enough to lay in grass
Without noticing its’ texture
There are even farmers
Who harvest corn
Without remembering
Its’ kernel
I’ve heard of monks
Who seek solitude in nature
Just to retreat inside their minds
I am none of these
I am all of these
But more,
I am the ant
Carrying its’ weight
And more,
I am the beaver
Whittling its’ wood and beating at the bank
And still,
I am the girl
Who laid in the bed that the doe warmed
Who let acorns roll inside her palm
Who caressed rough bark with tenderness
And laid down her back to rest.

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