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This Morning
Anne Britting Oleson 

The brilliance of honeysuckle berries,
flashing against the waxy green leaves,
warmed in today's immoderate sunshine:
all along the side of Route 7,
all red like blood, like the heart
filled this morning with August,
with Tuesday—and the cacophonous birdsong,
the high-pitched bowing of insects shout down
those little voices that say
I can't wait for this or that--
for next week, for fall, for Christmas
or my birthday—when this profusion
of fruitfulness is what's happening now,
is all that matters, is enough.
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  • Home
  • Issue III: Alien
    • Works III
    • Contributors III
  • About
  • Submissions
  • Contact
  • Archives
    • Issue I: Dawning >
      • Works I
      • Contributors I
    • Issue II: Flux >
      • Works II
      • Contributors II