It rained again all day, and the next 
day the wind picked up what it failed 
to scatter in its wake. Along the avenues, 
the first, premature blooms of spring

while every tree gathers circlets 
of moss at its base. However hard I tried,
I couldn't fill in the spaces with what
I did not know. Every book I've ever read 
is a version of that reminder: we can't
claim anyone or anything we don't own.

And that is the whole world— its silences,
upheavals; how time is motionless 
even as it fractures into color and life.

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