Mid May opens its branches to the thick scent of gardenias and hyper explosion of pollen laying on the cobblestones in a brilliant mustard tone
Guitar strings play in the room above me, soft at first, then more energetic, like the Friday that warms from a frost to a sun-drenched solid eighties-era bloom
My walk home will show its grit
Replacing this beauty with garbage men collecting never-ending strewn trash
Deep satisfaction, the kind that comes from taking terrible risks pays off in the tilt of my head, the stride of my unreasonably long gate
Wedding cake floats from the baker’s window, thick frosting permeating the open air, reminding me that I’m not a Mother and have no celebration for Sunday Mother's Day
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