Non-Erotic PoetryWitch Mountain MeadowCloud is mist as a matter of fact,
Ignis fatuus, I might say,
Although it hovers serenely there
Before it mingles with rivulets.
But when I take uncommon measure,
I see more than will o’ the wisp.
How does a whisper turn to echo,
White birches bend like dowsing sticks?
How does this cloud ruling the meadow
Ricochet “Fool! You do not know.”
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