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It is the rock that parts the rushing stream,
a stream which wears, by bits, the rock.
The wind that bends the sapling down,
a sapling that survives the storm.
The earth solid beneath my feet,
a foot that falters along the path.
The sun that shines a summer day,
a moon that beams the winter night.
The next beat of my heart,
the last breath I take.
"I place these moments in my pocket
to be pulled
at the rush of noon,
the crush of three...
when tears come,
when words must learn to be enough..." MKL