all the pretty maids stand in a row
waiting for their blossoms to emerge
two and three at a time, riotous, flashes
of color over the green, the voices bleared
through the air, quick brushstrokes of paint, now
here, now there, such a pleasant portrait
to contemplate as the sun stares down, streaking
their hair with gold and red, the copper, the brass
to line pockets, the pretty maids, with their
placid hands gathering, always gathering their
blossoms back to their sides, palm against palm,
the best way to walk
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