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Catcher in the Rye

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The gentle, loving
breath of Spring
enables the vines on fences
to run rampantly
like a relentless, ravaging river
The tulips to flaunt
their blushing and sunshining petals
The thick birch branches
to sprout a myriad of broccoli leaves.

Her breath quickly turns
broiling and audacious
the vines are enthralled
by Her dampened feet
from her daily afternoon showers.
Braided into a maze of intricacies
they are tangled within themselves
as a plethora of rainbow tulips
multiply in an ivory flowerbox
the forested leaves providing shade to the people.

Her breath abruptly turns
cool and uninviting
depriving them of the audacity
vital to them
The trees blush amber and
a variety of morose shades
the tulips sag downwards
to the ground,
originally where they were birthed
the vines wilt to blackened tumbleweed.

They join the ranks of their ancestors
as decomposed matter in the
soft soil where toddlers
claw their hands in
sculpting mud pies
and other messy "works of art"

They look up to the birch trees,
the tulips in the pristinely white flowerbox,
the hyperactive vines
where their offspring reside
and yearn that one day there will be
a Catcher in the Rye
to whisk the children far away
from a tortuous fate.



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