collecting thoughts, connecting dots 

this poem is the thankful one 
the one that bows in gratitude 
and readjusts its attitude 
each time a new line flows. 

do you suppose it knows 
how fragile it is, in its quiet 
paper skin? how any one  
line might be its last straw? 

so it casts its syllabled shadows 
as far as it can, holds the 
day in both inky hands 
and stands still, still in awe. 


Day 25. Caught up. Whew.

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