A sable brush the poet’s pen
sweeping sea to shore
in tones of emerald green
to gray, with sparks of flame
from evening’s fiery sky.

Milton’s eyes could see more blind
than most sighted orbs
sense to admire, and yet
May’s orchards are sweeter still
when apples ripen in July.

The flower is harbinger of fruit
and never is it worse for wear
no matter the odes it has inspired
or the sighs that greet its bloom…
A poet uses without consuming.

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