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There's this shape, black as the entrance to a cave,
A longing wells up in its throat
like a blossom
as it breathes slowly.
What does the world
mean to yo if you can't trust it
to go on shining when you're
not there? And there's
a tree, long-fallen; once
the bees flew to it, like a procession
of messengers, and filled it
with honey.
I love Mary Oliver.
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