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Up from the valley grass
To the stone of slopes
He is thirsty and she is thirsty:

I am but stripling
Grown through rock
And I fail to feed your children.

I can wring not
These useless roots,
For the clench of rocks.

I coax every straying bee,
I promise all,
Would they but deliver
sweets and liquids unto the stung lips
of these thy children slender.

I am nought but fern,
I’ve a thin heart
upside-down, crossed and elusive.

Next to me is early crocus
He shall last not long
for following too soon the froze
To serve children awaiting first thaw.

I am moss gone south,
Bitter on the tongue,
And for these children,
I will invert the stomachs.

say something nice ... or not

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