White Crane

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Bark, tough and earthy under my palm

thick skin – you’ve got a decade on me

and scars, visible in each bump and crag.

 

Eye and heart, drawn to a wound

hidden gracefully in green boughs,

wide enough for my finger

and I cannot feel the bottom.

 

Cracks radiate pain and consequence

outward. Brown-dead lines

the only sign of movement.

 

I trace jagged edges – something was

forced and you bear the (w)hole.

To touch these grooves of suffering

is a holy grace.

 

Holding on a moment – a blink – forever?

and I notice something else

within sight of the damage.

 

White, another’s discard perhaps,

yet it is new:

an image – a bird – a crane.

 

Tiny laughter bubbles. How absurd!

beauty, unexpected and small here.

Another grace and I cannot see the bottom.

 

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