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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.

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She carries home onions in a string bag. She walks in time-dinged tweed and wilted woolens She is of age and does not count her days. She knuckles cords of twisted tendons. She treads low-heeled in frayed suede booties. She wraps a skimpy scarf around a pinched hairnet. She carries yellow skinned onions into an ochre kitchen. She peels and chops all of the pungent onions. She simmers the diced bulbs slowly in a wide pan until caramelized. She sweats the produce to a suet brown. She puts the cooked onions into a large iron pot. She takes a liver-spotted cabbage from the scant larder. She shreds leaf and core, minces more. She places the cut cabbage into the pot, adds water to boil and stew. She seasons. She makes the thick soup last for many days. She later leaves the funk-soaked house She walks to a shop many streets away. She, in usual garb and hunched beneath a blunting wind. She, bone-bent angled away from a cold sky. She shops, pays with coins, buys onions in a bundle. She again selects a dense green globe of cabbage. She battles homeward carrying onions in a string bag. She feels the strings gnawing her dry skin. She looks neither left nor right, one hand clutches a large cabbage head, she carries it like an infant close to her thin breasts.

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She carries home onions in a string bag. She walks in time-dinged tweed and wilted woolens She is of age and does not count her days. She knuckles cords of twisted tendons. She treads low-heeled in frayed suede booties. She wraps a skimpy scarf around a pinched hairnet. She carries yellow skinned onions into an ochre kitchen. She peels and chops all of the pungent onions. She simmers the diced bulbs slowly in a wide pan until caramelized. She sweats the produce to a suet brown. She puts the cooked onions into a large iron pot. She takes a liver-spotted cabbage from the scant larder. She shreds leaf and core, minces more. She places the cut cabbage into the pot, adds water to boil and stew. She seasons. She makes the thick soup last for many days. She later leaves the funk-soaked house She walks to a shop many streets away. She, in usual garb and hunched beneath a blunting wind. She, bone-bent angled away from a cold sky. She shops, pays with coins, buys onions in a bundle. She again selects a dense green globe of cabbage. She battles homeward carrying onions in a string bag. She feels the strings gnawing her dry skin. She looks neither left nor right, one hand clutches a large cabbage head, she carries it like an infant close to her thin breasts.