Poem 1:
Weekend mornings are
not mornings, but noon. The sky
is as blank as the snow on the ground.
The mind threatens to be as they are.
The Dirty laundry lies scattered on
the floor. Wash, dry, fold, clean.
The irritants are there no more.
The tree looks broken, battered
and devoid of life. When will it
remember to be beautiful again?
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It starts out with an empty rhythm
then adds a beat. Then it paints a picture
only my eyes can see. She tries to show
me something only known to her. I can
not see it, but I hear it all.
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