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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #2006032
You can't rush nature. (Form: Burn's Stanza)
The Artist's Touch

A gentle rain from darkened sky;
the crickets sing a lullaby
in counterpoint to the wind's sigh.
The day ends in a hush.
Adieu, it says – not a goodbye.
There is no need to rush.

A touch of red fades into blue,
her pallet contains every hue,
as each creation starts anew;
an artist's master stroke.
Each night there is a new debut
that fades in shades of smoke.

Nature moves to her own cadence,
ignoring time's passing pretense -
against its strength there's no defense.
Her art cannot be rushed.
She knows the moment to commence,
each color softly brushed.



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An entry for the August round of "Verdant Poetry Contest
Open Prompt
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