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Jun 2019
The evening air
The smell of pine
The grass tickles

Perched on the edge
Looking out
Over the city,
See the lights.

Olive, they call her
Because of her hair
That rustic green
Defines her now.

A gentle breeze
The strands sway
A gentle sigh
She is at peace

The moonlight shines
Through her emerald eyes
Her skin so pale; she looks so frail

Nothing to do
She’s free to ponder
To aspire, to wonder
To watch the bees

As the sun sets lower
And the shadows grow long

A final sigh, she calls it a night
But she’ll be back, as soon as there’s light.
To rest once again
In nature’s delight.
Anthony Smith
Written by
Anthony Smith  24/M/Montana
(24/M/Montana)   
137
 
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