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April 2019 Vol. 15 No. 1

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Elizabeth Alford

Adrift

When my room takes on the yellow cast of late afternoon, sun slanting through breaks in the blinds, I think of dandelions: how, below the surface, their roots spread and sprout, taking hold in the most drought-ridden soil, breaking through even the most stubborn concrete. Leaves unfold eagerly. Blossoms turn their heads to follow the brilliance of the day and shy away at night. They multiply, pollen passing from plant to insect, insect to plant. And when they are ready to die, the slightest breeze sends their seeds flying out into the world to find new homes. Whether they float for three feet or thirty miles makes no difference.

pausing mid-kiss
to take a photo
of our shadows…
how little light
we have left


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