below the sycamore she sits
her legs crossed, hands between her thighs—
she looks toward the sky with tired eyes
and contemplates the day about her wits:
today is not a good day for love
the branches slit, entangle budding boughs
engulfing her skin in sunlight
through her tortured words take flight
wrapped up in little shrouds:
today is not a good day for love
beside the roots, her legs and feet shake
as the summer breeze arises with humid air
like warm fresh fingers through her hair
and makes her think again, for her own sake:
today is not a good day for love
i approach the sycamore, looking down
to see her straining worried face
an i look about i sit and race
to speak of my delight upon the ground:
today is a day for love
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