Saturday, September 5, 2015

The last, perhaps, or not


In its thinker, each thought leaves a trace,
in body and face, after its kind;

some are birds, some butterflies,
some flowers, some frogs;

some are grace, some lace,
some waste, some odd;

and like a tree that’s down,
each lives on;

and there is no axe, no axe,
no axe, like dawn.



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