In Me

Like a tree,

there is a poem

in me,

whispering away

until May,

covering the Earth

with mud and clay–––

filling silence

and swaying

until it turns the same gray

it was yeterday, mixed

in dust all along

shys away, like veins

they are my branches,

write traditional rhymes

to fill all of my lines

because beauty

out of nothing

is everything you see,

like time melting away,

into me.

April 19, 2014

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