Pastels

The lake was created

with pastels

and sometimes I smudge

God’s work a little

when I pass through.

In my little canoe

I row with only

a nebula for company.

The gestation time

for my poignant pointers

is seven days.

My pace swells.

On the shore,

so many men link arms

with so many women,

drapes and windows.

Ideas are born to separate.

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