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Gratefulness
He wants to fill in the pasture’s low spots. I say no, no, no these are magic spaces. When winter comes they ice overnight to crunch like candy under toddler boots. Each spring, puddles leap into being, just deep enough to wriggle with tadpoles. Drying into mud, they entice butterflies to drink salts in a crowded aerial whiffle. Why even anything out? These depressions of ours hold so much.
Posted by kind permission of the poet. Photo by Annie Spratt/Unsplash
Somewhere someone needs help. Send love. It matters. If you can’t get there yourself, then…
I want a word that means okay and not okay, more than that: a word…
On Earth, just a teaspoon of neutron star would weigh six billion tons. Six billion…
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