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When we strike root
the dark clay
the grip of gnarled
wood tentacles
black earth
rock quartz
pressured strata
limestone and
oil the heat
of squeezed matter
molten melting
silver and steel
poured out from the forge
When we rise
the swirl of the flame
the drift of the blossom
spent sage
resins mixing
in hot winds
following the point
of the palmetto
blue mountains
the breadth of bright
sun warm
even so present
just and constant
gold through the mist
water stratus
to the cold ether
of nothing between us
but time in distance
unapproachable energy
flare and corona
the final fusing
How the living
crowd the light
-- Kent Chadwick
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