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WHAT I WILL GIVE YOUThe scent of wet cedar,the grain of hope scattered each autumn to geese stoking their long cries toward migration - keep these safe as a fistful of round stones out of the river to drop in dark woods when you go; like a ring in an old tale my gift may draw you into the clearing, the green that breathes. From Spikenard Return to Index of Jeannette Barnes poems
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