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The Breathing

 An absolute
patience.
Trees stand up to their knees in fog.
The fog slowly flows uphill.
White cobwebs, the grass leaning where deer have looked for apples.
The woods from brook to where the top of the hill looks over the fog, send up not one bird.
So absolute, it is no other than happiness itself, a breathing too quiet to hear.

Poem by Denise Levertov
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