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  • Writer's pictureHannah Hinsch


Slow over branch,

white and stumbling pink

they do not come to light

immediately but

bloom, late as blood

learn to walk

in spring’s earliest mildness

fragrant outstretched transparent

just in time to gather slowly, like love in words,

and fall at rooted feet.

Might I live that openly, that

fleetingly, to seek tenderness

and in his kindness

find it is strong.

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