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

Secrets

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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