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Saturday, April 9, 2011

At 12:03

At 12:03

At 12:03 A hot pot of tea
Emerged a brisk whistle
Steam floating free

Still garbed in my robe
From the swift of the night
Read the day's prompt
But nothing took flight

Still waiting for those wings
That will set to my words
That will give life to my poem
And soar like those birds

The birds of my words
Who would tailor each line
Who would stitch every glitch
Steer focus, drive pine

A tall evergreen would my poem be
I would never forget
When it's 12:03

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