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100 Minutes of Solitude
step out
feel the more-than-four winds
measure every angle of the sun
with each of your senses, all together, none
trace the outlines of leaves with the whorls
of your fingers taste the surface of stones
in every season drain the blue of sky
into your eyes and wait until the clouds
drift out of sight taking your thoughts
away find a tree and after introductions
when you feel comfortable enough
apologize

All poems are written and copyrighted by M. C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.