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Wildflowers
A golden field astrewn with colors blush
scattered to the winds each fall in velvet tear
cloaked upon the ground with a whispered hush
trembling blooms erase memory of fear
while Dawns fingers pluck each single drop of dew
each strains upward to draw the sunlight near
there remains shy unfurled buds of the few
waiting the cloak of moonlight before they burst
and with a great fervor their colors will spew
for their rare beauty the sun is left in thirst
always it is the moon who gets to pick first
2:32 PM - 8/15/2007 -
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