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Ticonderoga Wind
by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Quietly she listened
With a subtle Mona Lisa smile
As he ever so softly whispered
"I finally figured out your style."
"Oh what is it?" she ventured
Her voice now growing thin
The lacy curtains barely stirred
And the smile became a Cheshire grin
In the passive Ticonderoga wind
Then with the lightest of eagle feathers
You could have knocked her dead
"You use a lot of adjectives,"
He matter-of-factly said
As he lay there, Pasha-like,
Upon her pillowed bed
Is that good or bad she wondered?
Her soul and body bared
As she anxiously and deeply pondered
The information that he shared
And as she leaned back to listen to the raucous blue-jays sing
She was eminently aware of one important thing
Without a myriad of adjectives and verbs
She'd never reach the required one hundred and fifty words
Then she provocatively turned towards him with gentle nips
And licked the words right off his tender, smiling lips





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