ONE FINE TIME
We made of this a mess. Long, long ago it was
apples on a hilltop and a picnic basket made of
gold - Eden. Before the philosophers and the
rhetoriticians and doubters and critics each. Much
more quiet prevailed. Every bird had language,
conversing with the sound of each intention. The
water came down from a heavenly source and left
goodness mired in wakes and puddles. Even I walked
steady then. Blue sky, come to stay. Blue sky again.
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