Raymond A. Foss Poems

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As I reached down
To unlock my canoe
From the tree,
I held onto a
Black birch sapling’s branch.

There, next to my hand,
Was the vacated shell,
The skin of the cicada,
The remains of the nymph,
Clutching the tender
Branch of the young tree.

A small fleeting instant
Captured by my eye
Even though it matched
The smooth black bark
Because I stopped,
Enjoyed the moment,
And looked closer.

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