Wednesday, February 25


She said, I don't wash on Sunday
as she brushed aside the fear bells
barefoot prancing through the wooded
flash by dreams of sunny maples,
no thin saplings more.

She turned and waited
whispered, I love freely now
showed her heart to me.

She murmured something close
cool maple shade soothing old wounds
then set it free.

When I walk through syrup sun
and shifting shafts of shade
I hear a flutter by
recalling trembling wings
of the heart that learned to fly

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