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At the brink of the tongue, of expression,

the primaveral light slides through the blinds,
casting a grid of shade – and reflection –
onto the book as a portrait unwinds:
And so, letters and words come to light or
linger in shadow, bringing them to life
or placing them in a tomb where brighter
thoughts must go to be reborn from belief:
You believe in these words, you plant them fresh
in the garden that never existed
except in the shadows, with leaves so lush,
where ponytailed fronds the dark resisted:
The palms of your hand have brought them to light
in your stockpot of colors, dark and bright.
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