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Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg

Where is that heart,
the center of the field
swung open by the wind,
so we can see what's
still wet and ready to unfurl?

Where's the ledge? Where's the grief
that tears apart all the fencing?
Where's the sudden quiet
when the light through the cedars
dissolves shadows, and the grasses
ignite against the changing dirt?
Where's the exact location
where no answers matter?

What does it mean to inhale
this surrender, to exhale into
the sky that holds up
twisting charms of goldfinch
and battered clouds, ready
to change into something else?
How do I bend to get there?

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