NaPoMo: April 3

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Where are you going?

The wind beat its fist on my door today.

I remember how long ago it was always going somewhere.

You could sit on the south side of the farmhouse and hide from it.

But walk around the corner, and it took hold of your skin and shook it.

As if to remind me, as if I could ever forget,

that I was as rootless as the black soil.

 

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