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Palms
I trace the little rivulets
That, by the year, expand
That I may follow in their course
My life through my hands
That I hold a lifelong snowflake dear
That I might understand
The hardships of their rugged task
No others could have manned
Take pride in these graceful tools
That work the clay and sand
Wrinkle the old leaves folded in prayer
And the rivers dry up from the land.
Copyright ©
Ina Goodling
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