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MARIANNE JONES

The birds’ conversation takes on a manic edge:

It’s spring and they have much to do.

I am not young like them, can’t push any more.

I don’t desire to move any more mountains.

I want to lie down at the feet of the hills and rest,

allow the birds to build nests in my hair;

let the grass grow over me, form a carpet of my skin;

the clouds float overhead, unmolested,

the winds disturb the trees, unchallenged.