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From my screened front porch with

sagging wicker chairs beyond begging

for a coat of white paint I watch

a man walk down my morning street


Hidden by a Boston fern that lived

all winter with barely surviving

geraniums now blooming scarlet like

the blood of Christ my mother says


The man wears a backpack, blue shirt

on Wednesdays, midweek casual as

he puts strawberry scented chapstick

on his dry lips efficiently


That he doesn't see me watching him

guessing the course of his day

while I wait for the sun, listening

to the beginnings of another dawn


Matters very little or makes all the

difference if details tell stories

that otherwise would remain in

someone's backpack or pockets


I am just going outside and maybe

sometime he will notice me, wonder

why my braids are damp or slippers

soggy with dewfall like yesterday


When the night sky was all mine

and the fireflies flirted as birds

finally stopped singing worm songs in

temporary darkness where dreams of


Days past and yet to happen blend

blurring in possibility as my fears float up

joining unseen clouds and my hopes are

just enough weight, like a gentle blanket


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