Blank pages stand
as a monument
to the grasshopper's summer
Even as she dies
she persists,
impatient to live
Luck with no effort
Blessed with no direction
A wanderer sufficed
to fall further
down the wandering path
Over peaks and out of ditches
She always finished last
And was she ever lost?
Was she coming up a step above,
with secret stolen moments
of transcendental love?
If I walk sideways
I may move gently enough
A soft movement of my wings
drying in the sun
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