Emerging fore the horizon, an odyssey—a majestic fantasy not yet dreamt—sent, via cooled breeze, an invitation to begin the first stanza of a story worthy of a skolion with surest friends. ; )

No pockets for the posies, so basket teems with blooms,

Whose endophytes may allergy-bite—her head assumes.

Clara feels, though, that bouquets are worth every itch-rash—

Fleeting stings soothed by greater joy of living by pash.

So, rings round the grassy ground may leave her shoes astain,

But while green is no ease, up-steps remain her refrain. ; )

Perched like an ancient queen,

Purview which ave has seen:

Oceans blue to leas green,

Bills filled to ills thraneen,

Offspring: sprung, teen, and wean.

Now, fancied flights need a preen—

For aged birds on histories lean,

Gleaning mems—both tears and gleen. ; )

I betta you could not guess that it is not so fishy to presume that a micro-pod of Macropodusinae—be that as it may—do, indeed, have for display *magnificence* directly correlated to the magnitude of their attitude—not unlike how terrestrial kin of macropod skin feel that fealty for feet is not their only feature you are supposed to find impossibly impressive. ; )

She shared the solution of seeing the self as a scandent surfer—ever ascending the crest, never allowing the crash. ; )