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Almonds
April 11, 2021
I shift my
crooked eyes
Back into place.
(S)he’s the poetry
And the prose-
The perfect thorn,
To my wilted rose-
These cursive slopes
Clutter under
Worn-out almonds
Because the moon,
No longer shines as bright.
(S)he would be my
Full, waxing, new.
But here we are
Still in the bright
Of day.
© Melanie R., Milpitas, CA
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