whispers open: butterflies
emerge staggering on their wings.it reminds me of a certain thing
the grass whispered to me:
the dew dripped vainly
into my shell-hollow ear.
to waste secrets is terrible
and a fire swallows
the ones who keep their quiet.
they keep it in oak trees
where none can reach.
i would offer them my
own tongue even if it
meant i had to lay down
my own songs and strums.
but the branches are bowing
to your every imperfect note.
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