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page 27

Carol Pearce-Worthington, USA

The mystic life

is red leaves skittering across the garden. Occasionally you save one, then lose it. It's so contrary, so simple, so dreamlike, so disconnected from things you push yourself to do, think, pursue. It's a stairway, sometimes up–sometimes down. You run into someone climbing, greet, pass, continue alone, and later say, I saw someone on the stairs today – never happened before. Will it ever happen again?

from the head
of a stone angel
... birdsong


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