Every network blares
the same bad news.
Come away,
clutching your troubles
in tight fists
to where the water
will unravel you
threading the same prayer
through all the ages
while the generations
come and go,
rising and folding.
Lay your open palm
upon the cedar tree
bowed over
with the memory
of frost, of fire
till the life of the tree
beats in your own blood.
The smallest child
standing by the water
knows
which stone to keep
and which one
to let go.
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