Poem by Sandra Fowler
Simplicity is like a sycamore,
Quite nude and living weather to the core.
Its terseness speaks to me of skeletons
So tissue paper frail against the sun.
I count the bare bones of emotion's dance.
The glory and the pity of the circumstance,
Lifts us to the apex of poverty,
Where there is nothing but a need to be.
Though sunset is a thread upon the hill,
And dying light severely tests the will,
Just that we matter is of so much worth,
We scarcely notice that it costs the earth
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