Hark!

Stark strangers loiter to scavenge thoughts once hid;
both now bustle briskly under this fair poplar

my muse, she blows keenly to rustle up these tired
parchments – not scratched e’er since autumn

closed its eyes to shades of green. Before I woke
under dreaming spires, I wrote a sonnet for you.

Me thinks to keep it safe in heart, away from her prying eyes
and strangers’ judgement, at least until summer comes.

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