Can of agua did take off the day,

Storm front of clouds on-went other way,

Flooding’s friendly zone replied with, “Nay,”

But garua’s kiss made all okay. ; )

When blocked writer’s letters placed in noggin’s cogitating keeve ferment no reprieve, that which is hazy will emerge as a daisy if hands continue to believe. ; )

Would a bloom trade its petals plucked for pages turned to tucked—forego the metage of saturated soil that nourishes its sun-seeking soul for a paving rather than a planted role—wither itself to the brink of death for a chance to partake in a story that rhythms each living breath—prefer to grow in a sense outside of its stem even if it were to no longer be a gem to them? ; )

Sneaped Deborah The Zebra at her unwanted guests, “Tsetse flies, time to take Fleeflee byes—for thinking you could get types rather than gripes from these stripes.” ; )

As neomenia’s season arrives,

Feline of quite the eye size does apprise:

That regarding each of current nine lives,

Over the moon is status to surmise. ; )