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Inside I absolutely love the potential of mornings

black to grey to the developing dawn

capricious clouds, possibility of rain

right outside every window waiting as if

it will always be this way waking me

the returning birds so boisterous, bawdy,

little bird brains sending out signals,

songwriting in the air, screaming and

other prayers, pastimes, partying as if

we exist for their pleasure, oh yes

or do you really think they don't know

yellow butter sky, tinge of tangerine to

weeping cherry pink tears not yet dropping

down past forsythia hidden nests not disturbed

by late Spring snow so white as if blanketed

inside opens to outside where stillness is

on a back street, tertiary to any triage

but not forgotten by a street sweeper swishing

and swashing past, scarcely touching asphalt

an odd thing on a rainy day as if required

while I fold three white cotton handkerchiefs

found crumpled, gifts from him to me as if

I was ever that kind of lady, me with my

pocket preoccupations, lack of fashion sense

oh but the lace, the tiny violets, the purple

I leave these embroideries out where they

are seen several times each day, not to be

pursed, pocketed, or possibly passed along

as if anyone else would understand except the lone

yellow jacket examining the edges to death

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