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Gifts
by Lana Orphanides
Along the pathway of yellow grasses
the blue river lightly hanging on the sky,
I search for secret things, a bright winged bird
who flies then isn’t, as if it never were,
the great blue heron sitting in the barren tree
disguised as branch but listening to the air,
the prison cell where someone keeps my poem,
the one with the dark door, someone I
do not know, will probably never see. We are
unknown to one another yet
she walks through my prison bars
and offers me her key.
I am so slow to rejoice in the voice of grass,
the wisdom of lilacs under the dried buds,
the leaf that forms a heart
and lies in the V of the birch,
the love that lingers hidden
everywhere underneath the edge of cloud.
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