The dust in the corner of my room,
Dawn peeking over my windowsill in
The color of tiger lilies.
August hangs from my shoulders,
But I am a feather
Lifted by that sweet wind.
Rows of hydrangeas, fragrance climbing
The vines on that final wall in my heart.
The birds join me in song while
The long hand of the clock melts
Into a puddle under my eyes,
What more could I want?
Well,
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