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White coins
clustered in domes,
plants crowded
like commuters,
as the sun sets.

I wonder, and bend
to read the park’s label:
ordinary wildflowers
a century old,
tamed for this border,

mounded, rounded,
snowflakes in evening air
not about to wither closed,
American country sisters
flaunting plain faces.


Posted September 13, 2013 by perettipoems in Nature, POEMS & ART COPYRIGHTED, Poetry

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