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OLIVE

I was four and green, wet behind the ear, And legs damp below the knees, Brushing past the moist sere, The bed of roots and and shoots, the trees Spreading over the woodland carpet-mass. Underfoot, the spongy sward of my viridity, Of last year’s leaves and this year’s grass And next year’s fertility, Crumping slightly and springing back into place When I passed by, As if I’d never left a trace. Overhead, a flood in my sky Of swaying leaves of birch and aspen, Numberless emerald fish flitting in the stream, Setting my eyes swimming under the sylvan ocean Of a yet-unfathomed jade water dream.

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