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  • I am greedy for gifts.
    Every day.
    I crave them --
    the tiny jolts.

    In cities new to me, they flutter about like birds.
  • Of course they do.

    How easy to fall in love with the other stories
    the ones you've never imagined until they rough you up --

    Of course they do.

    Insight flashes when the senses are aflame. When primed.
  • But here at home--take today--

    Out here in the orchard where I work the berry patch, I slip
    on stories
    on old stories as my hands stained raspberry go about their own dance--

    stories of berry-picking with my father along the railroad tracks or stories he told of fishing as a boy or my mother tells of her father cutting her hair or of her grandmother playing the drums or of her aunt's parrot or great grandparents or what I know happened on this land down at the front barn perched on an old quarry

    on and on and on the mind flaps
  • until in the middle of the night
    the familiar becomes strange
    surprised at itself
    and gifts wing in

    or like now, when an astonishment
    just there.
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