on the waters of the white daffodil sun
we awoke to dreaming drifting
no more categories
the summer alphabets had come
the ones of berries, of the broad leafed
swish of raindrops showering us all silver
as we passed. and the rainbow fixed in
the ever altering skies.
the sound of mowers in the afternoon
by this we know it is Saturday
we wont have to consult the sun dial
and Grandfather makes kites for us
out of brown wrapping paper the kind
that parcels come in
homework is far away
but not the Lone Ranger on TV
nor the aroma of grilled cheese
we could do anything I think
I know we will
on this delectable day
I'm writing you this way
in clouds of ink.
mary angela douglas 27 january 2020
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