Morning Poem #3, April 12, 2016


The brightly-colored ball
Rolled slowly down the hill
Down the street
On a quiet summer morning.
It rolled past flowers and lawns
And in and out of the deep shade
Of the great oaks, the great poplars
And the spreading maple trees.
A door of one house opens
And a hand retrieves a newspaper
From the front stoop.
The ball bounces against a curb
And comes to rest.

Copyright 2016

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