Franconia’s Notch

I don’t know for sure, But somewhere along Franconia’s notch, imagine the crisp 65 Fahrenheit air and calm, sun filled shadiness it exists in.
Somewhere along franconia’s notch I imagine there’s a perfect little spot.
Unknown, but resonant none the other.

It’s platitude unbecoming.

Its magnitude revealed.

Unveiled in twos.

Unpinned from our minds by the 4 square spreadsheet that is time.
Sometimes I listen to phish’s pebbles and marbles and sit back to reflect,

Wondering if indeed the marble in the sand came from my hand.

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