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Greener than the clover’s mile,
sweeter
in a pinch, to me,
brighter than her lack of auburn,
redder
robins in the trees.
Who was in the vernal sky
through
the glass I called a rose?
True, we were the best of friends,
two in limbo, so it goes.
Cupid and his simple rhymes,
stupid though, they were,
stolid from the month before,
squalid
like the love for her.
Simply put, that day in Spring
barely
made the calendar,
sadly, dropped her off the map,
kindly,
girl in lavender.