A
lonely crane’s shade and cry
drift across the water—
and the water, far
from Heraclitus’ death of soul,
turns a
word unrolled in one stroke
like a silky shawl in my answering mind:
a little epigram I made—a token
with this sign and sound inside—
I place
it on the scale set to grow
a spine for plumes and barbs—
but no, I am no Odile, no Odette,
and yet
would I mind if that wing
someone else will find and use
to fill her heart with this much sky?
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