They sat, a mile apart
on muddy ground, alive
and hoping for a sign
from Him, above
that would bring close
the portrait of plain art,
inside the hive
where drones make wine
to measure out a dose
well earned and truly owed.
She cried and let her tears
fall into raging waters; perhaps they died,
there was a hope of God-Almighty human fears
but she just sat there, waiting only for the tide.
The river gave its powers to the coming drought,
she stood and grabbed a sturdy stick of Norfolk pine,
they met at last and took a mighty walkabout,
and drank the contents of the wild strawberry wine.
He took her home then, on his back, onto his cot.
She smelled like licorice and spices from abroad.
It would not matter if the weather would turn hot
he knew that life itself was absolutely flawed.
A tired moon said his good-byes that very day,
there was some light still to illuminate the pair.
And there they stood inside the river’s awesome clay,
he had his hands around her head. He loved her hair.

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