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greed becomes green.
Imagine such a world
filling a chair alone in a room
whispering.
The power of words
starts with smaller things;
hen scratches
the marks of a tortoise back,
the tsk tsk of approval retreating.
The hand, writing,
is stopped from all other work:
the plow un-straightened,
the pot left to simmer as thoughts do
in a burst of clouds.
The Word became flesh.
What's done is done.
We return the favor, spelling
with sticks in the sand,
between the wash of waves.
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