Watching Dandelions Grow
Above me, the sky is painting
in swirls of grey and white
on a canvas of the brightest blue.
In the distance I hear the symphonies
of Chopin and Strauss
played upon the rustling leaves
and in the fields the gentle breeze
plays catch-me-if-you-can,
chasing itself among the hay,
while swallows gliding lazily
hang suspended like puppets
on strings we cannot see.
And me, I lie here dreaming
flat on my back among the grass
just watching dandelions grow.
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