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In Praise of Individualism

Yellow petals fall across the cloth.

High time to throw old tulips out.

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But I've waited nearly one whole year

for them to grow and bloom.

Those petals with their onyx dust,

of little use in here, no longer are

just part of a greater sum of six

but each one is itself a whole.

When they wither, then I'll carry them

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like feathers to the stream, launch the fleet,

each petal steered by one pistil, black

and sharp as the beak of a stork.

No matter if they end up swirling

in an eddy, or clustered on the rocks

like broken boats in hurricanes, or

spent butterflies. Each still has its life.

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