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The Meaning of Lines


by A. Starling


Hold your breath
The smoke here is thick, I know
Ice underfoot, let it burn, let it go, but don't ask me to 
take your hand

You have never been so patient as to sit and wait
even for the sun to rise
Watch, now, here it comes
cresting over the hill as one large eye
boiling the glass
long frozen to your fingers

Spread out beneath gossamer, rowan, birch
These are all yours to keep, she told you once
Your years, your errs, stretched across
this dappled sky, broken and cracked
scorched to its core
Beyond recognition, surely, and unmistakably yours, yes

yours


—A. Starling

Written 2015, April 24
10:55 am
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