The light combed through her hair, the reddish-brown of each strand glimmering and fluttering. It was a spring-but-it-feels-like-summer kind of day, the sun barely brushing the top layer of her skin. The dash of chill that wrinkled the air (taut with warmth) rippled and fell away: the world moved slowly past, not knowing, not wondering, beautifully ignorant.
2 comments:
I like this poem a lot. Especially "beautifully ignorant".
I like beautifully ignorant, too.
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