A Poet Reflects

Wandering through a pine forest one early morn, his thoughts fluttering with the birdsongs, bathing in the clear, bright air, he came upon a high cliff, and as his gaze relaxed, stretching unto the far horizon ahead, his being spoke,

‘I began to write poetry only after a life that laid deeply dormant within me began to wake. My poetry is the tree rings widening with the pulse of her awakening, a telluric power that speaks and speaks ever more certainly, the records of a time stepping out of its own bounds and into…

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