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these hands

where
beginning
just this now
from roots forgotten fell
to make of weeds
a bushel more
than e’er my lips
could tell
from whispers
once a secret kept
awake most all night long
words I scarce remember
yet my heart
has made to song
where paper fails
shelves
where none are felt
a vault is lined
with buttercups
and lace
linen was my color
more lavender than blue
verse infused
to fill my blood
with you

. . .

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