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and the clouds are betting
spring will never come,
chewing on their smoky cigars
and tossing spots onto my deck
like poker chips
while I watch and sip my coffee.
But the odds are in my favor
and the sun --
or some old gambler in the sky --
decides to aim his spotlight
at a distant stage
and the mountain begins to croon a torch song,
chasing away
those long winter blues,
inviting our hearts to dance in anticipation.
* * *
1 comment:
Like especially the line "the mountains begins to croon a torch song".
Always a light somewhere in morning.
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