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Thursday, March 20, 2008

Sonnet LXXX

The dissonance of clouds is beautiful.
Transparent sprinklers clearly mirror that.
Abnormally the thunder rumbles here
through hues of sky and cloud stay white and blue.

Green grass suspends me, trees might do the same;
their consonance adagios of wind.
Where fences lay to rest the saddened ground,
they frame the sky and let the fields abound.

Perchance I’ll catch the pitches of the drops
or count the rhythm of the thunder’s dance.
Or maybe hear the symmetry of rooves,
their symmetry by random rain removed.

Surrounding triangles of sound this day
the sullen sky turns happily to pray.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!