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The Dance


Frances Haynes

A gust of wind brushes the swaying dandelion.
Dancing to and fro
Swirling high and low
Sneaking and teasing
Advancing and retreating
The rush of cool air, bending his partner low
Dipping deep and slow
Straightening up, coming close
Pushing away, bowing low
One last twist, 
One deep gust,
And to the mist, away the white fluff twirls.

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