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Offerings in the Grass

No one else’s feelings are your own, Not to own or hold or keep Not even to send back as cliffs to voice. You can fan them, as a fire, You can hold your looking glass close Show them who is fairest And who lives in fear; But don’t your arms grow heavy with the weight? Don’t your soft hands bleed against the silver?

Better to leave offerings At the depressions in the grass, The melted bare spots beneath the trees If your heart longs to feed something, If your fingers crave the feel of fur.

Every word is only an invitation, A wall, or a request. If you want to walk with me And notice every beautiful thing, I will meet you exactly Where our two paths cross Exactly when the time is right.


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