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A Little Poem 

The breath of the garden

has been steeped all night in wood smoke.

That'll be my morning tea.

 

Was I standing long enough

to collect dew? Because water fell from my

fingers, it's pent up things.

 

This Spring ground is still wet.

With not enough sunshine in the shadows

things don't dry till summer,

 

But my garden drinks what I drop

until my mind is clear of thoughts soaked

in that dry Winter.

— Dorothy Myers

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Dorothy Myers

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