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Paulann Petersen

Song for the one who waits in the Forest

Woman in the pines, I bring you

A gift, branch of wild plums,

The white bloom of dusk

Still warm in their skins.

 

Woman who waits in quaking aspen,

I sought you in April but found

Hollow morels, their gaping marsh scent

Filling my breath with spore.

 

I came to you once, a girl offering

Bread of citroen wrapped in crisp paper,

A folded blue fan, afraid to turn

My back to your eyes.

 

Forest one, snow banks have melted

Water is rushing into

Its cleft. When I fall, you must

Promise to swallow the sound.

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