Wednesday, April 8, 2015

4 toward the Omer

Last night lying quiet
on the beige concrete

before my black shoes
two branched maple twigs

like the veins of
the leaves that they

would have born arced
outward in opposite directions.

Walking that same path
today I find that

they are gone, pushed
onward once more by

the winds of Nissan--
or maybe they've become

the crimson-blooded wings
of some newborn angel--

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