On Saturday, I fall in love.
Snow sings across the pavement,
and my dreams retire.
A platter of light begets growth,
the music of the landscape,
blue splendor. In her slender frame,
I merge with rain,
but who will write of such things?
She is fruitful and unclenching,
turning verses in her palm,
rendered in a lilt,
a savored page for me to swallow.
And would I breathe
for fortune, I’d spill my poems
in the breeze. To lay in elegance.

To fall in love.

-r. miller


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