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My Tamarack
John Allen Taylor (bio)

It took me an hour to find the sapling
buried in the snow bank and another to uncover it—
in the end, it stood spindly and slight
in the whiteness, and I apologized for not coming
sooner. Its lower branches sagged, encased
in ice—having nothing else, I sat, bent forward,
and held the fragile arms against my neck. Cold fingers
melted down my chest.

Later, my grandma, who had watched from the kitchen window,
asked why I had dug a hole to pray.

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