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The Journey to Ireland and Back to Maine            

The Ninth Secret

Go to the lake, the seashore, the mountain top, a room lit only with firelight.

A gull dropping a mussel on the rock to open it and then flying on without tasting even a morsel of that soft flesh. The tide coming in and going out at the same time (I've seen it!). Crying and laughing.

Write a poem about paradoxes. Anyone can do it. Here's one:

The wind carries the night in on a cloud,
the moon falling between mountain peaks,
behind leaves twirling, twisting, shining.
The midnight half-moon reaches up
through the ice on the lake,
like a whale breeching,
dancing, skating,
carving circles and lines across,
to meet the stillness of
one hundred million stars
spinning around the universe
and into the vast space between my eyes
where I see nothing
but sunlight washing me clean.
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