August 19, 2009
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a chorus of sprinklers
spit and stutter
through the doorway
and I remember
the little feathered creature
that which was unseen and mysterious
sang out annually
with the voice of summer
good day
mummurs the blossom
with its delicate fingers
that humbly offer their creamy pollen
the roses have drooped and wilted beside me
the blossom realizes
a shiver runs up its little stem
my leaves have grown dusty
and my only sustenance
is the water in which my fellow flowers are decaying

The sprinklers douse in a sloppy manner
the misty cover fades under the presence of sun

The blossom rests unheard

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