Some, and oftentimes, being alive is absolutely exuberant. In those times, I find myself, unfettered to the time, and playing tag with, nothing else but where the sun and red or white oak trees, tease the shadows. Trolling the stone steps, to the grass, tip-toeing over clover, pausing a cushion by the trumpet vine-entwined trellis. Frowning for a moment, for soon knee-socks will be lackluster armor against the din.
Posted on: Wed, 25 Sep 2013 04:31:25 +0000
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