Adorned as sweetheart, but ever adoring street’s heart,

She, with flows sans fella, adroitly turned Out In art,

Showing blowsabella how to play another part—

As pirouettes—from pours of sweat always have their start. ; )

Upon return from sail, whilst traipsing to quarters, he paused mid-turn to relay another farewell to passed afternoon, this time with a fleeting dry cry from each eye, before inner-talking a mild tsk-tsk to tychism in favour of a wowed bow to Taoism—for as splashes and swoops of the sea faded from day’s set, sale of sail was surety that no dance is of chance and all that is enough to be featured as fine must be so by design. ; )

That which brought Sammy the most joy

Was a bit too nutty—vey oy!—

And about it she was quite coy—

For hers was not an acorn ploy:

No, she chipped each monk an ahoy

To merit ends of saveloy

To be tree-sneaked past glade’s octroi

For nosh with stash’s fresh bok choy

Upon blanket of corduroy

Under eve’s stars-and-leaves alloy. ; )

For those, marchets could pave way to lighter pastures, forth-setting hygge-seeking daughters from fettered dark.

For these, sons march towards free trees for free, where froze coze is committed true via laps and taps of bark. ; )

Sun-setting space sparked Sophie’s stretch, shining serendipitous strength, silently stirring scene’s speeding steps, supplementing saphie’s swinging support, spicing spirit’s self search, soothing seeker’s steady sorenesses: soles, soul. ; )