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ISSUE:  Spring 1930

Here in the stern dark house Of loam, the trees stretch boughs Of roots that hunger downward, roots that keep A pact with silence, a covenant with sleep.
Under the leaf mould, under
The intricate small wonder
Of fern and blossom, the roots go down to take
Drink from the caught rain for that evening’s sake
Which craves tossed boughs on a lemon-colored sky,
Having a need of boughs to reckon by
The depth of darkness presaging the end
Of a day that goes more as a lover than a friend.


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