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Hate, stealing our moments

And sometimes our lives,

Hanging on to grievance

As if it were a solid thing,

Like a rock, a sturdy branch.

Someone told me,

Bitterness is like drinking poison

And waiting for the other person to die.

Wisdom, like a real branch,

More solid than grief,

Sometimes, more solid

Than the hurt we carry

Like a bag of stones

Over our backs,

Always thinking our burden heavy,

Unable to set it down

And see the world opening

Like the blossoms of the Serviceberry,

Peeking from under pines,

Saying, come to me, I am free,

And, for a moment, we rest

In their waxy, white peace.

The world is a strange place,

How we look to its ugly spots,

So rare,

Compared to its lovely ripples:

The trembling leaves,

The musty smell of grass,

Blue lakes, like mirrors,

Waiting for us to jump free.