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Like a bowl of seeds on the counter’s edge precariously balanced: the words I need, green and fresh for the paean planting await me. Wobble-legged, I try to keep it steady but it is too late, it is already overthunk and with the slightest quake slips, falls, explodes across clean, white, patterned linoleum just a hair out of my panicked grasp.

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Speaking of Poetry

  • A poem by Christine McCartney


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