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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ dry twig snaps beneath my feet~ solemn punctuation in this vaulted nave of oak and cedars. the canopy exhales: My hollowed trunk shelters nesting wrens, my frost-etched rings remember drought, my roots taste the buried stream's cool pulse. I tilt my head—a supplicant— as bark breathes against my palm. the oldest oak leans close whispering: Child, stillness is the first consonant.
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