This anniversary of my brother's death
brings snow to the mountains, rain
to the valleys. Still half-sleeping,
I stand at the window and see golden
birds flying,
maple leaves. Today I am told it is
possible to write one's genome in one
long line of code, in a leather-bound
book, and a century from today some
scientist can lift
that book from the shelf and make
your twin. No bit of you need survive,
not one cell, not one eyelash, not one
drop of blood. Rhinoceros, platypus,
maple tree, you.
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