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  • Nature

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    i roll my bulk against your hide;
    my secrets threaten to burst free.
    who am i to hold them back?
    the wind coming through the window
    is leaden with the scent of
    honeysuckle.
    shielding my face as the sun boils
    from behind a cloud,
    your warmth is equal. 

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    Poetry is what is lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    jonathonca’s Poems (8)

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