Day 12
How doth thee on an ancient path of clay/
adore the roots that tangle, twist away/
the bruised toe that seeks pied-à-terre?/
The steps that mete the angled views from where/
cotillion ladies sway in fancy's faire/
are treasured in their awkward pleasure's heat./
The danger of the non-attentive stare/
that pulls away from care's full trusted beat/
is caution's clueless casualty. In there/
we find that leaves above can part/
us from our daily innocent flown heart./
A casual breath seeks the fragrant air./
If only blogs could course us down the way/
our mind's true judgement in communiqué.
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