On water’s anvil, of hovering tired of late,
the cloud smithies sandals ultra bright fit for paces.
Oh spring hammer borne! Till June you’ll have to wait
to see the water lilies, spark flown traces.
And from another place the hammer’s wild swung flight
comes down on your heart and upon mine too.
Maybe that flower will grow, which sparks ignite,
but when, we have no clue.
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