Poetry

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From the weeping pines
they bore her
on a bright rose petal

not with mournful songs
but shouts of joy
for the one inevitable thing
sacred to fairy and forest.

They found her on a bed
of oyster mushrooms
clinging to a fallen elm tree
surrounded by little drawings:

red salamander
pink-breasted finch
summer flox

In her tiny hand
was a poem just begun

and no one wondered
why she lay there, so young
so spent

she just went for a walk
then laid down and died

for love of it all.

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