To good to be indoors.
I woke up one morning and no one was cleaning cars
the doves and hawks were dancing, romancing,
eyes closed, with only the children peeping
by the millions the gnomes and statues thought of mother.
No one declared this day a prayer-a-thon
comedians and celebs turned their grinners off
weathermen pocketed clouds, stuck up a high
little men twitched on silver threads like flies.
The people scooped up petals from their roses,
other mothers sons rode a wind, thrown like posies,
many a garden in a moment became forlorn.
The fathers will trim their edges, each Sunday morn
then silently whittle away with their pruning knives,
after washing muddy stairs, wives simply sit down, and sit.
Daniel Janes.
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