

The Springtime PainterI long for the yellowslosing myself in a mustard meadowa patch of gold in the natural quiltstrewn over the hillsan ocean of carefree memoriesno worry of mudstained jeansor wind-mussed hairchasing the start of something new,something as beautifulas weeds growing in a sun-washed field.I miss the whitesbeing invigorated by paper-white,paper-thin petalsfragile messengers brighteningfrosted morningsaromas of ice-flowers that warm a static homefresh laundry and strong coffeethe smoke of a wood burning stovethe arrival of sun as a new day beginsI desire the pinksthe hearts blooming on bare branchesa romantic snowfall blanketas individual peta




Things I Misssix pm sunsets lift blackbirds from their lineslike ominous clouds, they swoopa silhouette painting by winged performersagainst the orange-red skycoyote lullabiesferocious yips sung alonglow howls that touch the soulcalming the night with echoesthat luxury of heat in the presence of coldgoing to too many philosophy classeshas only left memore lost.
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