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Plain

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

I wonder, and bend
to read the park’s label:
phlox—
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.

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

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