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Bag Poem #1

A little something I wrote back in October.

When the warm July wind shakes the
tall birch tree’s leaves, the firm strong
trunks sway lazily, as if drunk from the
joy of many previous lives; romance running
thick in their veins. Even when the local beaver
comes along, his tail wagging and shaking, the
birch tree does not sound alarm, it does not
quiver. I do not know if I possess such integrity,
yet every day, as particles and follicles fall from my
decaying body, I forget to bask in my own morbid
mortality.

Posted in Poems by Preston on July 10th, 2011

One Response to 'Bag Poem #1'

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  1. Honeypaw said, on August 27th, 2011 at 4:35 am

    Wow! That certainly *sounds* like it comes from October.

    I take comfort and guidance in the adage: ‘he who is not busy being born is busy dying.’ Please don’t wallow in your mortality, but look for opportunities for growth and creation. Creating a poem is a good step.

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