In the eye of it
She belongs to it
This morning she is beckoned to the quiet edge of it
On her way to the shore, she slips on a rock
She sits on a thistle
She switches to a stump
She hugs a cottonwood for 53 minutes
Despite intervention, the floods will come
Arms outstretched, she pleads with the sun
To release its hold, to hasten its set
For this moon to rise,
whole and familiar
♦
—Jodi Vander Molen
@jvwords
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