The Tree of Life
A warm apple night,
moonlit tunes sprinkle around us
like snowflakes in July.
I collect them with open pulms:
silly dances, smiling eyes,
tightened arms when time felt too fast—
in the fabric of cider air.
The city wore coal dust, but
he smelt of cut grass and
noon lake so serene—
I dreamt of bluebirds from the west
eager for new water.
Green leaves as tonsils, for our
eternal midsummer.
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