David King Rowe III

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Morning grass, like supple prairie cord
Would sweep us clean with drenching dew and shine
Our tennis shoes. The path of words and weeds
Soon disappeared with winter’s vapored breath.

The sun would chase us slowly for awhile,
My shadow dancing on your bundled back.
In all that world of time, we never thought
To ask about our royal middle names.

2/8/1986

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