Our Season
In the morning,
In the grassy season of mist,
All the children made their way
To the center,
Carrying flowers and rubbing their eyes.
The men were making honey.
The women, laughing.
It was glasses of sun they drank.
It was the water falling from the waterfalls of falling locks.
It was our season.
And it will be our season again.
Here.
Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2007
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