Poetry in motion/action. So here we are.
All I have to give
is a bouquet of years.
Each tightly wrapped and
sprinkled with baby's breath.
They'll unfurl
and perfume our room together
until the petals drop
becoming the potpourri of our lives.
The memory of the blossoms
portage us over the rapids
Until age widens
and the years flow easily
into the nostalgic swamp.
And that's where this train went off the rails. I think it started at "potpourri." We'll try again tomorrow.
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