The fog shrugs its shoulders, heaves
a sigh, and sneaks off;
the sun’s whispered something to the unborn leaves
and as if
a cork has popped, its release
promising a party - the talk and music, the smoke -
the guests arrive.
And the trees
are starting to share the joke.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear them.

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