Little did she know

The tragedy of poetry
Is how Atwood sees
As the words are written
Inspired event complete

Like an epitaph
To memory in bold
Detail delightful sighting
Though future is untold

No assurance can be given
By simply putting down
Ink to paper, finger tap
All prophecy unfounded

Into future like Le Guin
A new world expounded
If all society's whisper
In amplified stereo sound

A foot tapping, toe curling
Secret I keep
That all stories begin and end
With us somewhere in between
Eucalyptus globulus, Tasmanian blue gum

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