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J Michael Apr 17
She winked at me...
Through the northern breeze,
Carrying the oil
For the painting I'd breathe.

Climbing the boughs,
I gently waved.
Over stately lines,
Above their leafy train.

My bedded Sun,
Lay behind hill's crest.
Wayward moon pining,
Empathizing with mine.

Before the stars came running,
A counsel to the lonely bodies.
I left that artful canopy.
Smiling, I think,

"She thought of me."

— The End —