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Who knew of the heroic pansy?

The ordinary day
grey sky incumbent
peels off its mask,
it is raining
on the sepia-covered earth,
one lonely pansy
standing against
all this end-of-December harshness
yellow-as-the-sun with life,
fearless in my window box
against all my hopelessness.

Editing stage: 


If poetry is a gift (and it is!), it's the gift of *SEEING HEARING FEELING TOUCHING SMELLING INTUITING* things (more often than not, ordinarily missed), embracing it with words and recreating the scene with new metaphors, new identities, new juxtopositions, and reeling the reader in with the emotion portrayed. An epiphany, an "oh, yes, I know this", is evoked and we become more resilient because we know we're not the only one to have ever gone this way.

Most of us are frightened to death of being real, all we are and could be, if we would just take off our masks, and *GROW*, in spite of it all, or better yet, just because it is in our nature to blossom wherever we are planted.

Happy New Year, One and All.


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