i thought i saw your petals poking proudly in the april breeze the lips of a child soaked with grape popsicle or cherry kool-aid the musician in me tried to slap a time signature to your wind dance i shined my courting shoes bright as spring sun on the roaming potomac but she was not at home that day then a hip florist informed me there is no blackthorn rose outside of wayne shorter's saxophone which is a shame i feel so good so bold come spring i thought of sending him one
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