aquarelle

hereabouts
it began,
the coming to
whatever was around
me, the step in of sun
through glass,
the scrawled
stick-voices of birds
in the hedge,
and scratchings of their
feet on iron roof,
the tastes bright as
formica, the touches
on leaves, a nose
into flowers,
and later,
whichever way
to school you took
a steep run uphill,
the wind’s violin
at your back dancing
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