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  • Hannah Hinsch


Water pours

from table to floor

at the lower brims of terra cotta, roots

quenched with a slow drip

on an evening

when I had never known

they were full—

spilling out sufficiently

as a rosary

bead by bead—

and what silent care begins in a heart

carries a need

to the One who hears

quiet roots make way

for the words—


in bright blooms she had always known

and held, within.

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