Strands of poetry sticking…

                            “I snap the twig to try to trap
the springing and I relearn the same lesson.
You cannot make a keepsake of this season.
Your heart’s not the source of that sort of sap,
lacks what it takes to fuel, rejects the graft,
though for a moment it’s your guilty fist
that’s flowering…”

— from “Each Year” by Dora Malech 

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