Ninety, fragile
in so many ways.
Yet girlish, naive
and particular.
Particularity of place,
of time,
of ways.
Filling it with
dreams made real; all 
to be washed away
when night rises.

Everything leaps out 
from the center.
Tiny leaps of a centipede.
Great leaps of a gazelle.
The steady leaps of you and I,
intent upon finding ourselves
knowing that the leap into Being
is the same Being as
before the leap. 

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