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Timpany

by Mary Lambert

And now the Spring.
A stirring deep under of
root/tendon/sinew and
running sap.

A movement in the groin,
Wetness. The smell of seed
and juice, sticky with potential.

Thrusting, fruit abounds within,
led by an epiphany that unfolds
itself in unison with the symphony
of all life.

A golden sun caresses its creation,
pulling, cradling, warming,
working its magnanimous birth to a
crescendo of symphonist splendor.






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