A Fine May MorningAcceptance isn't something I do well
Or very frequently. I'm more inclined
To fulminate, believing that this planet
Is a writhing ball of pain and sorrow,
Natural catastrophes augmented by
The human kind, but, suddenly, the sun
Has come out, shining through the leaves
Above me, sparkling the dewy lawn,
Upon which birds of some sort slowly
Walk and bend to dip their heads.
The street beyond my hedge is quiet.
Wrapped in warmth upon a chair upon
My porch and drinking coffee,
I could be persuaded to accept
This planet now.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2020-05-23 at 17:16
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