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The Rose It was a pleasantly warm and tranquil afternoon in Mrs. Kensington's garden. The gentle sound of a meadowlark wafted through the air, carried by the soft summer breeze. Dragonflies flittered across the amber-tinted sky like the fingers of a pianist dancing up and down the scale. Mrs. Kensington, kneeling in one of the many flowerbeds that encompassed her house, looked up from her work and squinted into the dying light. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she looked down at herself. She was wearing her favorite gardening overalls, which were so soiled from years of working in the dirt that it was hard to believe that they had once been denim blue. She was wearing gloves, and, since she had rolled up her shirtsleeves before she had started, her arms were both covered in dirt up to the elbows. Taking off her wide-brimmed straw hat, she got to her feet, wincing at the pain in her back and
Seasons of LoveRobins sing gaily in tall oak treesAs bees float quickly from flower to flower.My hand holds hers in the cool, soft breezeAs eternity slips through in an hour.Gentle warmth, rising, meets cool night airAs I stare into eyes of immeasurable bliss.Faint golden embers hang light in her hairAs her lips meet my own in a kiss.Leaves drift slowly and fall to the groundAs the sound of the wind plays soft on my ear.My arms find her waist and slip gently aroundAs I pull her in close, bodies near.Frozen memories of what we once wereYet haunt me still when I think of her.