By Jennifer Brookins

I miss the giant scrubs, the ones who love-swayed in the midnight hour as though our back yard was a ball room for waltzing oaks. In my darkest hour, you gave refuge to my soul while I sat under your merciful bough and wept in my never-ending fruitless search for the me of myself. I felt your laughter when I lamented, “You and I are so alike; both of us look better with clothes on.” Come quickly spring.
© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

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