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It begins with a strand of the wind;

sharpens your profile, adding a fine line

sparkles in your eyes

When it rises, we toss and turn

unwrapping the thin papers,

let it blow away.

There is something bigger going on,

in a quiet place, inside of us.

Before the rain starts

we stand on the edge of the river

as tuning forks, our rusting legs

slowly cease buzzing

  • A poem by Esther de Jong


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