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  • Wild Roses

    The path through the woods seemed long, when I was a child.

    Afternoon shadows were an invitation to slip in and out of the known world.

    The Rugosa roses, once cultivated, now grow in stands along the edge of the woods.

    The smell of the wild roses is a strong spice mixed with spruce and warm earth.

    If it were a drink, it would be a magic potion.
    One sip, and I would experience the cumulative joy of every day in all Julys.
    One sip would be divine liquid paradise.
    It would either drive me mad or bring me peace, or both, in that order.

    Early July, that cusp we passed so blithely, so Ha-Ha-ha.
    The wind was in our hair; our hair was shiny and brined from the ocean.

    For a time, I stopped and fell under the spell of the wild.
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