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Born and raised in a summer haze

April 16, 2011

As time past stretches past my finger tips I reach back instinctively to catch it, hold some tenuous grip on what use to be that I let speed by too fast. I can’t close my fist around that day because the day was too warm my palms sweaty and when I rinsed my hands in the shallow water, wiped them on the reeds by the shore whatever there was vanished imprinted in the decaying leaves lying low on the bottom waiting for time to turn them.

A ripple in a pond doesn’t reach any further than the oasis’ perimeter repeatedly moving in a way trying to find a way to spread further than the edge. Only the sun can change the depth of the pond evaporating the contents slowly revealing more of the shore but never the deep bottom.

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