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Through the woods this morning on the way to teach what-not about poetry and Emily Dickinson's ships and flowers, how they are sunsets, I thought I smelled honeysuckle, I thought I smelled that which I remembered growing over the rusted fence in my back yard, my mother teaching me the word, wild, untamed, white and yellow tongues and filaments, a smell sweet and unforgettable, a tiny drop of honey, and today on the way home toward the same woods I saw there under trees along the edge of the field wild honeysuckle white and yellow tongues, filaments of sweet perfume, an accurate haunting.

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