The sky is made of marble blue gray streak,
and the willow iridescent green sways
in summer's moist grass-scented air, oblique.
The memory of other years allays
the small apartment, and the tiny room
where music sings. Here poetry is born
in tears and laughter. Even in the gloom
of rain or break of night, the Sun's not worn
from care or pain. Each day the dawn brings light
like lemon sliced in tea, so sweet and tart
that underneath the darker taste of fright
is swallowed. Let the morning sing its heart
in freedom taken in small bites; its dreams
built warm in shaded season's burnished streams.
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