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Jul 2020
No garden in this wind ,
no god in this garden.
The moon shot hope
from the meadow .

Walked in the forest
and yelled at the ferns
then apologized.

This feminine tree
seemed much older .
At the rivers head
it cried.

The vicious circle
closed then opened
and in it I flounder .

The final
sun on my shoulder
through the whispering leaves .

Heavily, the deep quiet
of the river bottom envelopes me .
How do rivers begin ,
I cried .
WL Schuett
Written by
WL Schuett  M
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