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Propel (a sonnet)

The sweetest cheek is rounded in a smile

And wind-whipped tears stream quick round to blonde nape;

A finger pressing faster mile on mile

As though t’were life itself that gave her chase.

There is no goal that she pursues by halves

She listens to the roaring of her heart.

And whenever a newfound dream she has,

She throws herself in whole and not in part.

Piano, dance, swimming, charcoal, or sport,

Her interests know no limits nor no bounds.

And though her attention span tends to be short,

Winged heart oft lifts her feet right off the ground.

My job is not to stanch or limit find,

But nudge her knotted tethers to unwind.

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