Little green involute fronds of fern at creekside.
And the sinewy clear water rushing over creekstone
of the palest amber, veined with a darker gold,
thinnest lines of gold rivering through the amber
...
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That does it. I am going to buy a volume or two of his poetry so I can curl up before a fire and meditate on them during the long silent hours of night when all else in the house sleep.
my poetry sucks why would you do that.