Our silence is languid:
the rolling of clouds,
Neruda at the door.
Your pen's scratch
is a serenade of syllables.
Dew slants across the orchids.
In the name of poetry, your
fingers become folded messengers,
carriers of the rivers,
words fashioned from how
we feel in the mornings.
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Rachael and Amanda appreciate all of your comments on their poetry to no end. ♡