Dear John


Olive avenue of parking gods

Golden shale weave a woven maul

Debris opulent crimson prism shading

In multitude ale line piping clean

All over a way to see it through

Though mind to wit in the velvet softness

of forgetting

The taken by any sorrow of storm

Letter listen to shake you from

the aspen branch leaves

Landing against an ambient green

Where it almost seemed broken blows

To more the winds against truth

As dropping to the stones by bony whisper

Dusting the incoming snow

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