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The Bright New Hemisphere

Fred Schmalz

Where we began
a rain almost
invisible falls
on all our friends’
new babies, their knit caps.
Tree tips prod the air
with white buds, white
against white marble.
Oh stone, tiptoeing.
We smuggled into this
new land heirlooms
spirited from the last.
I would have told you
but they were so fragile
I had to lie to keep them alive.

Fred Schmalz

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