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Surprising Recollection (September 1997)

Five minutes in mornings
to hear the birds chirp
give us the chance
to recall what we have.

Forty hour days leave my eyelids hanging
down to my jaws, and then to my knees.
Like an ape, I wander,
aimlessly munching, walking through all that I do,

unable to focus my mind on one thing,
since it no longer is just one piece.
I drop to my knees,
sinking in mud,

and implore the heavens for time to myself.
Millions of books and other such pages
beckon from shelves on the wall.
I’d read them all, but am forced to resign

the choice over which of these gifts to unwrap
to armies of schools of professors.
My head falls back, my eyelids lift,
and I think of the sky and grey clouds.

The sky, I find blue,
a gorgeous tableau,
framed by tendrils of green.
Two trees reach, into the air,

their branches spreading a woven sheet
of intertwined green over all.
Each has a trunk, completely distinct,
but their leaves are not quite so simple.

This windowframe is alive,
with something to say locked within.
The leaves combine, to form one green,
each tree, though one, a part of the whole.


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