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Contents Page: October, 2010, vol 6 no 3

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Genie Nakano


We walk under a scorching sun next to the river.  He is my guide, twenty years younger than I. Yet every time he speaks – I blush.  His voice is soft.  I barely hear him above the river's song. I move in closer to hear his stories of this ancient Indian Oasis.  I see the delicacy of his fingers pointing to the flowers. As we climb the rocks I watch the muscles of his calves flex. The heat has my head spinning and the rapid waters my heart racing.

Fan Palm
fingers reach into the green
Spring yearning


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