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little white flowers

left behind by

the last summer rain

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still a gleam

to some

of the blackberries

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the gold

just a thread

tugged out from the edges

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in the seams

of the red pillow

a fragrance

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under the porch

sightless

bugs

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green nitrogen

of the wordless

years

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the snails

let us see

the fish again

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all that’s

left in the garden

one white rose

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