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Sense and notion meld
where sound is sight,
and stillness is moving.
It completes an oxymoron
for the day: What crack
of thunder and flash
of lightning would slice
this mid-morning sky
when the delicate petal,
small and white, finally
reaches the black, soggy,
and grass-mottled ground?
Closer to some still point,
on mid-day, I gulp my tea,
and gather all empty cups.
