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Defines herself as that which cannot be touched,
Longs to be ours,
Gathers what water she can until
It grows heavy, slips from her fingers
She forgets every time
That is her way of touching us, the earth,
Which blossoms with every rain
Which makes us look up,
Pay attention to her—quietly demanding of us,
The repetition of a credo
(As much as she tries)
She can't stop herself from demanding:
Tell me you love me;
say it again.