Poem
A bud has made a thud
It's fall again
When oh when
Will I elope with spring
To sing my hope and then
Ring the bell
Oh hell soon winter
Will disinter my blue face
An always pent-up thing
Bent on places green
To tell the world I've seen
Ropes of tangled leaves
That race from ground to sky
To try the sun's most precious light
Barry G. Wick
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