Hay Fever.

The lonely flowers roar between the trees,

as snowfall graces withered golden leaves.

Some clouds of white in royal sky do yawn

upon the song of dusk’s dear friend, the dawn.

The blades bend forth with every silent breath;

from green to grey – a gradual passing death.

A wind, a gust, a gale, a squall, a storm

does rob the land of all that might feel warm.

So, small pebbles arise with time to show

that nature guards itself against its foes.

And mountains gaze into the forest land,

content to know that they shall always stand.

The sun awakes from linear slumber now

to shine upon the ocean’s wavy brow.

The swell and fall of endless love between

the ocean and its heart, the shore, is seen.

As stars guffaw beyond the atmosphere,

the planets rotate freely without fear.

But comets fly around and try to feel

the gravity of their lifelong ordeal.

 

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