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O Pretty Self

O Pretty Self

A snake curled in the sun
feels my shadow come and goes
ripples over stones.

The stream falls down
and oozes out of moss
and mud where a deer’s stepped.

No, I won’t pick this violet.
Let it clutch the cracking rock
blue out of yellow from a black dot.

When I leave these woods to work
and stammer or say two words at once
I’ll think of it and stop.

Drawings by Akram

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