One more little old SHORT poem today, for every stalwart blogger. . .

in RI

No one will blame me
on the whispering shore
for lingering so long
near your small rose island.

Bees' slow honey
is the measure of summer;
morning and sundown,
by that rose double-arch.

And my tongue's dark island
leaves a late russet shadow -
dry relic of the voyage,
our lips' broken compass.

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