Words from old favorite tales come out
of hiding.
The leaves empty their woodworks in the
retelling.
Those words are secrets I kept from
myself,
Self-kindness in self delusion, neither
wanting nor needing
Another source from which to hear the
same old things,
Echoes of convention and prejudice from
a favorite character
Who I can now only wish didn't sound
like my mother.
Has life truly left me mere handfuls of
syllables
Away from changing my mind about any
work of literature?
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