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I show my daughter the trees 

out the window but I see her looking 

at the wall beside, I show her 

the trees from the porch but she 

looks up at only the porch light, 

off but with strong lines to it, 

it seems all things with the ability 

to grow must be recognized slowly 

but I am impatient for her to see 

but why, isn’t it nice to have her 

there just a little longer, waiting 

like a dark river waiting for morning, 

the slosh of water so constant 

as to forget even itself, movement 

along the banks of small animals 

that too seem to learn of the world 

slowly to those who know it already 

and wish sometimes to go back to shore

Kate Lindroos

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