A Weekend Post: The Sunset on Mangolia St.

I’m settling in to work, and here’s a quick hello, from this Saturday morning, over coffee and a mammoth to-do list that shall ever-swiftly dwindle.

that rickety sign of green—


covered by ever-grown ferns

curled and tangled raw

like the red-furnace hair

of the widow ‘cross the street.

she’d grown beneath sunsets,

orange and pale luminescence,

then drove investors hard

until she’d confirmed stocks ideal;

showed herself cunning, she, in

energy given by the sun’s light,

blanketed over the earth.

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