Of what pride the exasperated, spent, willow of the wood?
Some would drink it all away within three days or less.
A whisper of a hummingbird, or a butterfly, dare to light,
even with the perspiring daydream boggle that there may be life there yet?
A lady and a boy, reading on the moist cool ground beneath.
The continual "shush" of a distant stream,
just white noise, only that, a sustained murmur from the distance.
That little excrement,
Death having a coughing fit in the summer air;
Did they marble his name, even?
And she had lost her leg, a wooden one given by the state in recompense.
"Practice your clerical with the school kids" they told her in a letter.
And she was so lovely, her hips turbulent as she crossed the floor.
I would go to the willow myself, and marvel and the gray hairs of the thing.
I would marvel, and skin cells on my body would be dying all the while,
breath in, breath out, chest drumbeating and the gray hairs barely kissing at my fingertips.
And I was thinking to myself, still feeling kind of sullen,
"I have known beauty."
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