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Pinwheel Jasmine
by Mary Flynn

A row of white blossoms
traces the yard,
dense as pillow fluff.
I could purse my lips
in their direction
and believe they might fly,
like snow.
But only for a moment
would I believe,
and only for a moment
might they fly,
for even as some
have feathered the yard
or found their way
to the porch screen,
pasted there like decoupage,
I have seen them
on their fine arched stems,
tough as web-weave,
squall-whipped and burdened
by summer's hard rain,

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