• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 04
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At my back, a tree, deadened by winter.
Not dead but merely asleep.
Birds, lining the branches,
living notes of a new song.

Iridescent against
the Mother of Pearl pavement, I stand.
At my radius, the walls of the oyster.

Layer after layer of nacre form,
I rise, an irritant bathed in mystery,
the miracle of life in the darkness.

Facing my future
Standing on the mica-laced patchwork
Knowing I am a pearl of great price.