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Words: A Poem

(From the Bench at the Bend in the Trail)

Remember: each word is a mystery, A thing to be handled like fire or love.

Tramp like a fool through the whispering wood And you’ll never lay eyes on the singer.

Carefully, carefully, stand back and wait. Watch where the word goes, behold how it moves:

Its nuance and hue, its contour and weight– It flits like a finch, just over the page.

Only at last, when it trusts you enough, It alights and allows you to write it.


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