A Poem From the Porch

One could lament a string of bad luck, losing
at cards, the passing scratch of cemented thoughts
hovering over old lovers, nigh distant friends.

But Fortune’s intent can not be grilled;
bent, feet to the sky, in a hammock,
in the rended shade of July’s sun,
wind in the freckled forest.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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