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Replying to a comment on:
Stripping the willow (Free verse) by ecargo Powder and flare
or the inky harness of the plough,
we seek the unturned memory of dirt,
of thunder, a sough of doubt.
Wanderingâs a skin.
We wear motion, our descent
completes the turn.
Within the wood, a sickle
burns in a hunterâs hand.
Sighted along the long draw
of alder, oak--so flies
the blood burn of old sacrifice.
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