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Sunday, May 10, 2009

the fireline.

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How fitting
The breeze should blow so hard today
That trees are stripped of their flowers
And buildings are stripped of their shingles

I pass a circle of spring petals
Arranged in a clearing by some forgotten hands
Like the sandcastle that deteriorates still
Even though the children are now in bed back home

There is no one to be the caretaker for the world today
There are only the shadows I pass on their way to work
And only my shadow watching me expectantly
Constantly forever,
How could the same hands that constructed love
Also have constructed pressure

The children in their bed have an inner ear infection
But they don’t even know it yet
The pain is dull and rising
Every day they are closer to maturity
Every day they fear less about the seasons
And more about how far they can let the fire spread
Before it consumes their world.

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