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I wrote this poem. It is titled Between Seasons
In the backyard-- overturned barrels, waterlogged pots the tarp intended to protect uprooted, splayed on the bruised cement. It is reassuring to be told the design will stabilize, branch out from a still point like a voice inside the self. From dead leaves, roots, torn weeds, and broken branches: the cadence of compost dark, golden potential. Patterns will emerge, says the physicist who argues against chaos theory, from the ripped cushion Flung from the chair, from a naked table frame can be deduced the rhythm below, a sublime design in the discard pile, the fact of theory. Linda Pizzi