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Aug 2023
He Left a mark
on fervent breast.
Was just a spark
he combed and pressed.

It lit a path
into the wood.
A row of lath
no backing stood.

A rose
with no trellis.
To pose
with no pelisse.

Footprints ebb
In April snow.
A spider’s web
to snare her woe.
sandra wyllie
Written by
sandra wyllie  56/F
(56/F)   
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