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xo + mm
An open cut, a tree tattoo
gouged sharp into this
stouthearted oak
this massive standing timber
its moss hanging down, tousled
like morning hair
its arms sing to me your spirit
to the sky, to the sky.
Our love rushes like wind
sending leaves to shudder.
They fall at its command
day or night and
sprout again to life. Love needs
no cuts, no monograms to wear away
its place - it writes itself
endlessly in time, chiseled into air
the warmest stream of air
bringing skies to weep or
hiding deep inside the
core of ancient noble trees.
Mia Moore
"Graceful."—Kirk
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