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by Erica Skog


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.