It was only an errand
To fetch a stick of stovewood
Behind the tilting plywood shed
When a sudden breeze
Passed in the tall pinegrove
Up the hill
The shimmer
Of ten thousand pine needles
Danced on my retina
Tansporting me
To Rumi's "Ode to Joy"
Some kind of backwood beatitude-
Along with the split oak
I droppt my jaw
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