Cup full.
Wide-eyed.
Expectant.
Sure.
Sure of the green, the good.

Naïve?
No.

Little by little,
The Whittler
Shaves the surface,
Exposing
Purpose, intent.

Oh, sore.
Sore to the bone.

That tender stalk,
Under cold blade,
Shaved of joy,

The wound
Opened anew.

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