Rachmaninoff,
you aren't entirely wrong.
maybe I'll never
know how to write a poem
the way your
crescendos and trills
collide
maybe emotion is my much too much
the thick honey
which permeates
yet never escapes
this landscape-
is already
a poem.
my attempt:
hyperbolic,
just a fingertip
arrow poised
at the moment
when the lithe aspen
meets the tempest's
force to bend
all we have
is poetry
to brace against the break.
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