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  • Lorraine Johnson

[163] Yet To Come

I thought I heard the wood thrush

calling from the trees,

as the dawn rose slowly

pulling sleep so I could see.

The red beauty has not yet appeared,

so spread my wings, I must

and fly above the sea

and green earthly lands

to find the right concoction

to free my weary woes

becoming, once again,

enchanted by the lily,

and the primrose.

Yet ruminations flash faces

struggling to endure...

releasing deep, gentle sighs.

And in the distance

the thrush persists

still singing its tranquil call

for the day is young

and a million, hopeful moments

yet to come.


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