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On The Forest Floor

The clear light of dawn has trouble finding its way down 
to the forest floor

The instruments we use to measure time
from clocks to calendars to the rings in our trees
preserve the illusion of order
and fall in splinters on the forest floor

When the sun sets on this brutal time
we will be waiting for
the winter to pass
the snow to melt
the ground to thaw
We will be waiting for the sun to rise again
and for the seeds to sprout

The sky is shattered
its broken pieces are
buried under dead leaves
on the forest floor

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