This poem is happy.
It’s happy because it is sitting in warm summer grass,
Because it saw a good friend today, and because soon its going to fly away.
When it’s written it will fly.
Clouds will rise, lifting the smog,
drivers will slow,
then stop.
Guitar toters will put down empty cases and won’t replace them.
Mowers will relent, lawns will grow up around them.
Swings hosting kids will whine as they grind, moving only slightly
with the wind.
Everyone look up.
Words, letters, stretching like loose white cotton float gently up.
No destination, no constraints.
They stretch their toes, clap their arms.
Together they read:
i M
L o V t e
e S
TH i
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