Sun Poem by Rebecca Stansfield
Sun
April rain is turning over me,
transmitting gear inside of me,
the humming of the flying bee's,
is like wind whistling in the winter tree's.
Patient eyes of sun at dawn,
are the pictures of a painting drawn,
that never smile when you need their call,
but the reflections bounce off from the walls.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
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5/4/2024 11:28:48 PM # 1.0.0.1119
