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The Storm The Stars And Play In The Yard

The chaos of the storm
A brilliant starry night
A prancing fawn
These things I happen upon

From a worn out porch came a plea
In need of tender and curiosity
One sunny day I felt a spark
My days to change for work in near dark
Now on my own
In a circle of joy
The captain was gone
With another far away storm

I looked to the sky
Into far galaxy showing
Its healing so real
And so I was smiling
So long it had been that sight to occur
So many years a faded blur

Now crystal clear this sight brought glee
A starry night again to see
On route so neat another early morn
Eyes now caught one more treat
I sat and gazed
Was so amazed
A doe with fawn
Ten paces away
Prancing about
For the break of day

A show of light
Brought an end to their stay
I felt sad then glad
As they went on their way
Storms shall pass and a clearing to be

A star lit night is a show for free
The pleasure of the fawn
All simplicity

A leaf on the wind falls to wither in the end
Another borne
One more journey to begin

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Last few words: 
A night on the paper route going door to door. This is when I began writing about experiences on my job prior to the year 2004. My final job began 1995 and continued to the year 2015 when I retired after a first heart attack, when I had been working early mornings in southeast New Hampshire delivering bundles of Newspapers to stores. This poem is the first in my first book The Thirteenth Iron Law about which I am currently editing and rewriting. A recent discovery proves I have publishing rights to this book, so I feel lucky that it can continue.
Editing stage: 


I like your idea, I can relate to it.
The enlightening moments are rare and precious but can be triggered by simple things.


Thanks for stopping and reading,

Director of Community Outreach

"The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape... " (Picasso)

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