breakfasting on march
you can count on daffodils
all the fingers of a spring’s day
nodding through the passings
the illuminating of a sunbeam
by a mirage of midges
up down and the certainty of
the vermillion of the hellebores
under the skirts of a hedge
the knowing of a real morning
the ptosis of an early feast with
a year still wet behind the ears
dew i do love you when you return like this
with your promises of another kiss
under the apple with me
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