Lucca Daniel Green 08 June 2018 Submitted with a whirlwind of clicks and taps, a new start for the fool who’s never known himself. So let the Muses now whirl, plying their dance, their voices alive in song. How they shout freedom, pent up so long to the stuttering cadence of statements of purpose and person. No aid are they for academese, so their lyric dances wound beyond my ears’ range. Now again, ‘Lucca, mi Lucule,’ nine voices call in harmonies. Hail as ever, my queens! I hear you. And while I’ve been bleaching myself writing statements: Petunias yellow pink and cream spill over unstoppable, starting on trails of long blooms toward the ground. Mighty sprigs of dripping hearts have come and gone, and irises too, merlot and concord, and cream. Our sophomore roses are on the threshold of bloom, chocolate blueberry, palehearted raspberry, and flame. The clematis is flowering, shading its foliage in pinks, but bundle-budded hollyhocks run a tortoise-legged race, and Helios the sky-crosser stretches them ever skyward, and their leaves fan outward, drinking down his radiance. And off the ground the trees have regrown their crowns: maples, oaks, birch and beech’ve rained pollen and petals, cottonwood fluff drifts already on the afternoon breeze, and our majestic mulberry is spotted with rubies, its ripening fruit the bounty of birds and beasts alike.
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