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by Norita Dittberner-Jax


When the rains come,

oak bark blackens to a bold

calligraphy, small tufts

of leaves fall, an afterthought.


The peonies we picked

before the downpour

bend in fullness before

the letting go begins.


Oak and peony,

and what of our arms

which narrow

to the tender bones of wrist

before widening to hands

that hold and let go,

hold and then let go.