Thinking up new words, peeling strips
of birch from the trunk. Maypole
in the woods, ribbons made of
nature. I will turn to butter if I
spin. I am gladly aware that there is
neither late nor early. Still, I am
running round the tree, looking
for the entrance into us. I hop, gallop
and walk, adjusting my stride
for resonance, listening for the
matching hum of destiny. You and
I are somewhere in the mystery, captured
for the moment, and held in staggered
dimensions. Sleuth of invisible time.
Such is my clever way to humor Fate. I am
only pretending to look for you. I want
to have a story to tell, something to
make you laugh when you arrive. The
synchronicity appears with neither lag
nor hurry. Here we go round and round.
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