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She was roused by a peck of Earth’s dew,
come what may, she sensed anew.
Windows of her eyes, opened to flawless skies.
Swaddled in cerise,
A cardigan certainly, coating her grace.

Hearing the recorder play,
whirling to the tunes from // ‘The Baker’s Wife’.
Like a buoyant-arc,
she twirled to the rhythm of a Meadowlark.
Singing along the lines;
“Come along.
Fly with me, my meadowlark,
Fly with me on the silver morning”.

To spur a blossom,
onto a smile,
although awhile,
served her day-to-day nectar;
seeping through artsy-veins,
that coloured her mosaic-scales.

Perhaps the silent prays,
that vanquishes ones daze.
Until it wasn’t too late,
saw the dense-clouds turn slate.

Came about was an Alaskan drizzle,
seeping through needle-leaved greens;
that clenched onto sky-seeking pines.

In spite of which,
she felt sheer-safe,
beneath the erratic roof;
being her cosy-shade.

she felt the withering of her heart;
like the frolic-wings fray,
casting questions,
on her longings to stay.
The lady heard a quaking cry,
saw expressions and wondered why?

“With you my dear,
my halt is no near,
for why ought you tear,

while your mama is here” she solaced,
delving into disturbed teary-eyes.

Brushed lips on her cotton ball’s ears,
embracing warmth; thus he wasn’t left beached.
Ceased off her sliding bleaks,
pursuing relentlessness,
through beams of his cheeks.

Vanessa she is.
A mother;
A delicate flower,
and a forever lover.

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