4/29/2024
for olivia The golden kings of early spring stand bejeweled in early morning, turning dewy, emerald-cloaked faces to an unwavering azure. A surprise of a yellow bouncing ball trundles down the hill, her owner heedless, crying over some perceived slight (her mother insisting on a jacket, perhaps). And --- there! a splash of black-and-red swoops down to investigate, his mate urging caution from bent stalks of overwintered goldenrod (his neighbor in blue watches from an obsequious young walnut, biting his tongue). A flicker streaks by, flashing her mossy yellow underthings, scandalous and fleeting. And here the clacking geese have returned, shuffling bills busy at the watercress. I wish to return to a time when a simple scene could bring such joy.
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Authormary oliver wannabe poems
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