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March 21, 2015
This memory.
is a nearly physical assault
with edges clean as a newly split
piece of oak cordwood,
amber crystals still sparkling in the grain.

Perhaps when I split that piece
a long red splinter flew off
sinking itself deep in me.

What we know is an endless forest
of long oak logs
waiting to be brought down
as they slowly stir this
perfect air.
One by one they fall with a slight gasp and a rush of branches bouncing off the sandy soil. After the smash and starry spray there is a quiet that gathers itself and creeps away.