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Poetry

Yield is spring’s withered apple blossom
———evolving into fall’s rosy fruit.
Yield is the dry grass under our feet
———softening in dew,

and summer drought abated
———-by a week of steady rain.
It’s the snowmelt stream shaping itself
———-to the rocks in its path.

Yield is when, besieged by a poem, you
———are taken hostage by a fresh image.
Yield is the sun being swallowed by the mountain
———like a peach, and then—stars.

Yield is resetting the sail
———as the winds shift.
It’s the seeking soul responding, biddable
———when nudged in a new direction.

It’s the woman’s body when the birth pains
———-take over,
and the parent letting go, freeing
———-the adolescent toward choice.

Yield is the snow on the black roof
———-under noon sun.
And lungs—giving their final breath back
to the Great Breath.


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