Poetry Hides

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In the tip of your pencils

ghastly graphite, worn and broken
In your favorite soup of lentils
the most giving winter token

In the thin feeble blades of grass
striped mosquitoes had you bitten
In vicious shards of broken glass
picked up by a weak mitten

In the closet of your shy coats
growing musty with fine dust
In your first ride in a nautical boat
drivers holding all your trust

In the tail of once a lively newt
the rest your malice cat ate
In your cheerful stomping boot
your stainless mother will soon hate

In the golden hive of a bubbly bee
making their syrupy sweet honey
In there, deep within you and me
Not out there, not purchased with money





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