A Hundred Gourds 1:4 September 2012
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page 11


Joyce Ray - US


Time to leave this land where groomed pines abide. Branches bow and rise in a grove of sentinels. Knobby roots push up through earth and poke through spills rust with age. Cones crunch underfoot announcing my presence. And then, a lone beech, having slipped in, like me.

dress shop
from the shopkeeper's hands
a bowl of warm tea


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