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The Root of the Matter

12 Apr
in the corner, the stick calls to me
my walking stick, the root of a tree
got from the glade of a forest
rough, and ever ready

crooked, claims me to remind
from other matters, I'll not find
that untamed boy who prowled woods
but lost, while I'm confined

leaned against the wall
all gnarled knotty, a magic call
stirs a wound I must unwind,
or fall so far behind

because in it, I'm rescued there
worn wagon trails, my mind to share
rent from the mossy forest bed
unroofed, from every care 








 
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Posted by on April 12, 2021 in Poetry

 

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