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Lignin and Cedar

Lignin and Cedar

Some, the paper so soft the words smudge
with the swipe of a thumb.  Read so well language blurs
 into murmured whisper.
Some, gathered in corners, shreds of sepia and snow
Feathers of aborted parlance.
Some, buried beneath shells and jars
of volcanic ash. Some, crisp and sharp
as the day they were folded, nested
among the hold of cedar and lignin.
Correspondence poured from the boundaries
of sleep.

The chest is never full

I am never empty.