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Here’s a brook in all its April energy.
Up its steep and many-bouldered bank
a profusion of nasturtiums scatter
–“like bright syllables”
a transcendentalist poet might say.
Her eye would read that poem.
She’d hear harmonies of rock and water,
feel the soft touch of sun,
the warm taste of spring,
and think of what it meant.
Yet, air is full of a blue confidence in itself.
The world is full of fullness.
Nothing to transcend here.
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by Nils Peterson
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