Bark reflects the seasons as dramatically as new buds, as snow. Holds both tenderly in balance. Much like simmering red sauce does with steaming pasta. And always like that pristine black notebook waiting for the first gestures of a poem -- bark & all.
Bliss covered the outer limbs like a warm sheet in winter, and she strode into the room's perimeter, reaching for a reason, settling for none--the fountain freshens the humid air, a second thought.
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