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Still Room

I am the anatomy of wind
hateful and gentle.
 
I am roots and trees growing like a newborn
dream.
 
A flower without bees blooming
unapologetically.
 
The spores of a dandelion
lost and free.
 
I am a walking lie filled to the brim
with truth.
 
I am blackberries in June
a talking wound, scabbed and healing.
 
Wildflowers busting through concrete cracks
unseen and breathtaking.
 
A four leaf clover on Interstate 65, lucky
to be alive.
 
I am living proof that there is still
room in this world for me.

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