Must be this jiggy wind
That pushes my pen along
A little egotistical wind
Sauntering through the garden
Must be the light in the ink
That crosses out the letters
The white butterfly that flutters
Freely behind the pages
Must be this broken rake
And these visionary flowers
That pry these sounds from me
And pin them into print
Must be these wings uncurling
That carry to me the brink
Calling your name for hours
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