my love is a leaf
torn as by a first gentle lover,
from the branch.
Tumbling, wumbling,
Summer Salting,
she shimmies through the bright afternoon,
whirling past a world of
wearily falling sheets
of rain and
maybe a feather or two float by.
Soon, she will plonk
into a puddle… ;
concentricting ripples
of her love.
shitty poetry rocks.
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