wishes’ tall grace

Early September shines upon curvaceous green and petals of swaying yellow ‘neath the gray-road’s bridge, each waiting to be loved, open as wide as forever, tho unseen by nearly all. She would like this place. Oh, she would like this place. She would love me here, and September’s saffron forgiveness would shine upon our frayed-denim pocketfuls of kept memories; anyone who saw us– walking past wobbly, mesh-table sidewalk cafes, would know wishes’ tall grace.

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