The Memory
I awaken with morning
sun on my face; breathing
in the fresh scent of spring—those
dew-pearls the droning bees and I both adore;
it is a fond, buzzing-sweetness;
this tasty treat of seasons,
eruptions of color and scent filling my capacities--
I am a flourish of youth again:
time to dust things off, those things kept from
the cold under wrap--opening all windows
and airing—renewing if just for a moment
those uncharted beginnings together,
how we gathered our daisies, drinking deep
from pools of forbidden nectar, with guiltless
delight.
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