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On the eve of the storm

June 10, 2014

On the eve of the storm,
the trees toss their displeasure—
or welcome—
I cannot be sure.
I cannot read the leaves
of their books;
for there’re books
in their leaves.

On the eve of the storm,
the air is rippling with its energy—
the air is washing warm.
Crackling? No,
but the anticipation is palpable,
and I am warm,
on the eve of the storm.

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