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Sunday, July 26, 2009


When the autumn winds shake the
core of your foundation, it will not be
my hand that fells you to the ground.

I will not leave you as underbrush,
to become brittle, and burn with
summers first crack of lightning.

Instead, I will scoop in my arms,
that part of you, which can
warm me on cold winter nights.

Looking forward to spring, and the
greener, richer version of that which,
like the great redwood, only grows
more precious and rare with age.

Still Here

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