Birds make the tips of greenless branches bloom –
baubles with beating hearts

and wings to take them away
on the twelfth day.

I love a blue sky,
but clouds are more to look at,

and the cars make the town less lonely,
though they choke it too.

Are those crop-circles in the field,
or the traces of me pacing around and around and around?

Waiting for you.
I want to decorate you the same,

and hang from you always.
All you’ve got to do is say.

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