The African Tulip whispers
a strange windy song.

Wild grasses stand tall,
like willowy grand dames with
snapped wrists.

Autumn leaves simmered in red gold
crumple and fall from
naked branches.

Dancing princesses in gossamer gowns
run like streams of cold air;
when the dawn breaks.

They fly,
but they float.
They run,
but they stride.
They turn,
but they stop.
They breathe,
but they drop.

I have no windy packages,
nor have I hollow stalks.
I seek not aged greens
nor obedient royalty.

I am made
Of Sterner Stuff.

 

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