This Years Rose
Once one could hear the locust
Prying up for their new birth,
Now we are in isolation.
Rain hugs the bricks of our cottage,
We wait ‘til the next wave of fear,
It will come - it will go.
There will be buzzes from above,
And we will wait for Mother Nature’s fury.
She didn’t like her new flowered hat.
Nor do we.
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