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Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Sonnet XXII

My vast plantation glows a crimson green.
My loyal workers comb the lawn for worms.
Mechanically they bob their silly dance
while shimmering a darkly luscious sheen.

At noon they rest and gossip just a bit,
rejoining others at another spot.
Alarmed, they sometimes briskly flit away
and then regroup to share more of their wit.

Some days they never come to visit me.
(My green plantations don a jealous jade)
We envy all the trees that steal our friends,
who spurn our warm and gracious charity.

Then we connive, like dogs to get our feed
whilst happy days, unhindered, still proceed.

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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!