Aubade Odilon Redon, Flowers Star-birds murmurwith ancient light-breath, and if they drop a seed–or two—a rustle in the quiet nightbetween cycles of moon-song, it is the thing you almost-saw—but the flowers are there at bird-dawn blooming,magical, something like love. There are terrible things happening in the world, but I went walking on a beautiful spring […]


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