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Whispering to the woodpecker wintering here,
To the soft, supple pine boughs refracting winter light,

To the white-tailed deer who has come upon me as

Easily and unknowingly as

I have come upon him,

I begin a story
While I walk.


Later

I will not remember
The sweet nothings

That write themselves
Across my heart.

Not exactly.

I will remember
How good the writing felt,

How those lost words

Seal my love
now

As they do every morning
When I begin a story.


When I can

I will perhaps search for those words

And make some kind of use of them.


One Single Impression