Upon completion

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Under a cloche

Where inside is stowed

A craftsmen’s wooded garden

Rests a boy

Along a river’s bend


His fingertips scratch

Identities of growth

And with them he shows


Of 3rd and 4th generations


Mayzie birds

In crisscrossed turns

Circle high above him


They spy his heart

Sputter and start,

Aglow from inside among them


Ne’er a fret or worry

For Master or art

Ever tainting

Torrential seasons

For any of the reasons


Instead in verdant soil

Sweetened by marsh’s breeze

This tinyscape,

Alone and alive,

Is warmly surrounded


With thoughts,

Intuition and deep understanding

That this dome-shaped sphere,

A powerful

Rasion d’être, is his oak tree of abiding


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