800px-Draper-Pot_PourriHow is it to be free, while caught in a dance
of an erratic prairie wind storm that hurls dust
into eyes? I see thee passing in a glimpse
of a lost sonnet rhyme flaring torn with gust.
Love flies boundless, but bends heavy once signed
With houses and loans set apart from hearts;
How far one could go to find again a worn bind?
How long one could puzzle the whole lost in parts?
How close should I whisper in windy storm words
To sound desperate and tatty enough?
“Being facetious” you would say, while breaking thirds
of notes and woods on the same pile of a bluff;
Love, be light as a feather that never lands
And braid my long hair with your afar warm hands.

 

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