without this

the winter trees are brown with promise

tired snow lays listlessly on the ground

yielding patches of its former glorious

sun soaked chlorophyll drunk riotous color.

this is what we draw:

leaves, fences, faces, time travel,

stacks of books,

clutches of pens,

promise of blank paper,

whisper of time.

this is what we fill with each stroke, each intention,

each bow drawn across the strings,

straining to hear ancestral composer’s articulations

building bridges through generations,

to the seeds of yestertime

without this we are still some form of us

we are still we and

without this we are hollow

maleable

soundless paper marionettes dancing

dangling in the foul wind

of fruitless winter

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