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Dear Jane,


                                  No one

set the wheat fields ablaze. Look

toward night for the culprits. See

the pockmarks on the black-tar sky? 

                                  The stars,

numb from the silence of heaven

and tired of being so removed from us,

dislodged themselves and descended

to learn what all the fuss was here.

It was their curiosity ignited the fires

that scorched a path to the sea.

                                  The burden

of days blows through our lives

like breath through a harmonica.

In the heart of every tree is a guitar

waiting for its craftsman.

                                  The waters

part at our approach.  Come. Walk.

Each new era cries for its own Moses.