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Gardening with Granite

November 10, 2011

A tree full of rocks

In the garden of granite

One can never be too sure

Of what is found growing there.

Like sliding faces, drooping tears

Bony hips abound.

Rappelling needles slip to depths

Of twinkling pooling light

Born of the surface hard and still

In gardens made of granite.

Mystery dowsed with curiosity’s sweat

Only to make some sweeter thought,

‘Tis the difference between now and then

Rivaling that of summer and winter

Pushing the envelope of warmth,

Allowing a space for acceptance

Of what has always been.

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