The day is plump with verjuice
Puckering my lips;
The clouds sit thick above:
Slate and whitewash,
but they don't promise precipitation.
They hold the moisture in the air
And trap the heat between themselves
And the blacktop.
But my lips remain pliant,
and my posture upright and strident,
I am determined to remain riant,
It started with pluck, but
At this point it's pure moxy.
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