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Written by: Philip Levine | Biography
 Remember how unimportant 
they seemed, growing loosely 
in the open fields we crossed 
on the way to school. We 
would carve wooden swords 
and slash at the luscious trunks 
until the white milk started 
and then flowed. Then we'd 
go on to the long day 
after day of the History of History 
or the tables of numbers and order 
as the clock slowly paid 
out the moments. The windows 
went dark first with rain 
and then snow, and then the days, 
then the years ran together and not 
one mattered more than 
another, and not one mattered. 

Two days ago I walked 
the empty woods, bent over, 
crunching through oak leaves, 
asking myself questions 
without answers. From somewhere 
a froth of seeds drifted by touched 
with gold in the last light 
of a lost day, going with 
the wind as they always did.