The trees retreat. A scrap of mind
Is a bird, a bit of tissue
Tossed from branch to branch.
Wings help. Words help.
But there's such a thing as being
Too small to negotiate open storm.
The blue bird tossed between
What was a thought, what
Was not a thought, was not
A perch a bird could grasp,
Fears nothing, fears it
Is the only growing thing,
Knowing it is itself forgot,
The lack that tumbles away.
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