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What Poetry Can Only Attempt to Describe

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It's a thing that I have been noticing,
for quite a long time now:
the best times are incandecent,
and the best times are always shared.

The sun had been beating down on summer tanned skin,
the wind had been ever mild,
and the lake: a sea of sparkling ripples,
had occupied four lively minds.
From an upstairs window,
the four lively minds laughed,
thunderous footsteps down the stairs,
through the door, into the cricket-strewn lawn.
To the splendors of the night they went.
The sweet smell of a campfire,
the popping of pine,
the lapping of the water close by,
and the chatter of the best of friends.

The night had been clear,
the sky-dark.
And from inside,
a woman looked out,
on four lively kids,
glorying in youth,
who laid flat on the dock,
ever so quiet,
each equally awed by the sky that night,
and carelessly casting wishes to the future.

The future is unpredictable.
That night who could have known?-
That the woman wouldn't get to watch the four grow up,
and that the crystal clear sky someday wouldnt be enough,
To bring them true happiness and love.

I know I am not the only one of the four,
who remembers the scene that night.
the harmony; repose; rapture;
and; of course; the laughter,
that saturated the souls of each with happiness,
and left imprints on our hearts.





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