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Soft drops flow down glass,
blurring all those million Things;
what is wanted, what Is.
What came of days, plans;
none near in this grey cast
of life. Nothing to last, flow
from one to next as water sinks
spent to ground. The marks,
where are they, not here…
or do I simply fail to see
where my traces are kept?
Sandra Dorland
3/22/02
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About SandraDorland
I've been writing in various forms most of my life. I've had some editorial work published in a small southern newspaper where I lived, but otherwise no publication credits. I have taken a variety of creative writing courses and always received favorable feedback and encouragement to continue, and my friends and family have been after me for years to write and publish. While part of me yearned to do just that, I always found some sensible reason not to submit... and, therefore, never to be rejected... and never accepted either! At long last, I decided to start sharing my work. And here I am!