The death of two never equals the birth of one,
even if one swift stone is the cutting end of an infamous arrow.
One swift stone is three drops of blood on clean white snow,
a calling to unite and an urging to remain alone,
the passing of winter, the promise of green, a porcelain shell shattered
and the whisper of a promise released.
One swift stone pierces a coral breast, round and feather-down.
One heart is taken, the second merely given out in longing
to be free of its beating.
Washtub Press 
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