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Each Morning

Each morning on my walk 
a poem sprouts 
similar to the tender green beginnings of the 
now golden wild oat 
that borders my path 

Each morning 
fresh and new prints wander this path I walk 
delicate 
and crisp in the morning air

Each morning 
at first sight
a thrill of delight is 
born in my belly 
seeing their circuitous wending 
tuft in and out of my 
stiff 
straight 
path

Each morning 
a contrast 
so stark, so clear 
an invitation 
to something small
and anything but straight

--Kristen G., Adult