Best Thereabouts Poems

I can hear the water, 
	a giggle almost, 
	in the small cold spring 
	by which I sat
	that foggy morning, 
	sketchbook, pen, and watercolors in hand. 
	A weed with a single white flower 
	grew from the innards 
	of a half submerged, 
	humus-bound log 
	alive with neon-green...

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