If your eyes fail to imagine
where the earth ends and the sky
begins, think of a place bereft
of lines: the blue depths of a stream
flowing like hair that will never
be combed. Deep indigo of nothing
but fluid memory ebbing around
blossoms of white asters. “I remember
how flowers feel when you barely
touch them,” says the water. Like leaving
one world and embracing another:
seeds bursting into wildflowers,
clouds changing into rain,
the image of our borders
a mere outline the soul ignores.
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