Tromping in underbrush picking my way through skunk cabbage I stumbled on islands of pea green squishiness, where tadpole eggs gestate, about to break out, greenness in general being desperate here for rejuvenation. Strangelets, these beads of life, like the offspring of protons. Go ahead, consummate.
--what she dreamed of was disappearing into the seen
writes Jorie Graham in "Orpheus and Eurydice" and it's that time of the year, the in between, just before he looks back, in between the before and the after, before the turning. I smell it when I run. I'm on my way there.
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