January 1

The garden, with its plush leaves, locked. Only tree
tops peak over. With wry grin we rush to chop
down sticks. Pray if you wish. Brush your forehead to ground

begging forgiveness. Or gush and sing
our story. Thump some twig to hush far
off sighs of parent or thrush. But scoff
not at paintings, lush thoughts, plots.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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