RoseAnn V. Shawiak
Waving delicately like fine lace, branches of mesquite trees shyly wave and beckon me.
Tilting my head, watching them as I configure their personalities from where I sit.
Knowing their textures of thorny essence, feeling it even though sitting far from them.
Memories of once upon a time, touching their prickly fingertips was enough for a lifetime.
Now I'm contented with just watching them wave shyly to me from a distance I can deal with and admire them.
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