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A Jungian View.

    Bamboo, the birthplace
   of mankind, grows on a windowsill facing west.
   Its thread-like roots, gold and translucent white,
   loop the river rocks piled in the mason jar.
   Next to the bamboo a tiny blown out pinecone
   reveals each of its inner folding sheets.
   Inside there are small white dots, dots which are a mystery.
   One of the winged seeds, fallen, lies next to it
   like a wounded civilian.
   In the corner of the window
   an abandoned spiderweb breaks down.
   The web used to shine, a taut geometry catching
   the sunlight, but has since gathered weight,
   turning its tendrils soft.
   They sway gently back and forth when the radiator kicks on.
   And of course, unforgiving, the dust
   laying its shield over the sill.
   This is old skin, the skin of those loved
   and not loved, pollen, dirt, spores.
   There is also a ceramic, hand-painted harbor seal
   with wretched, doleful eyes.
   In contrast, his wide hind flipper lifts joyfully
   toward the sun. It's hard to say if this play
   between sadness and joy is intentional.
   Who is to say? 
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Author:Scott, Brittney
Publication:The Carolina Quarterly
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2016
Words:207
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