Everything is possible in this most possibleof worlds. Roll enough dice, and miracles look probable.
The miracle of winter fruit: although you miss
the strawberries, the custard apples fruit in May.
The fridge has fizzled out. Is this a bolt of fortune?
We'll throw a potluck, drink condensed milk from the can.
Cleaning out the attic, under old Reader's Digests,
you find a diary, half-eaten by the must.
You strain your arms until the screw-top jar flies straight
into the wall, and stand blinking at your own might.
Really, Rachael? You expect to twist a cloud
into cotton candy? Hell, who knows? I could.
The miracle of winter fruit: although you miss
the strawberries, the custard apples fruit in May.
The fridge has fizzled out. Is this a bolt of fortune?
We'll throw a potluck, drink condensed milk from the can.
Cleaning out the attic, under old Reader's Digests,
you find a diary, half-eaten by the must.
You strain your arms until the screw-top jar flies straight
into the wall, and stand blinking at your own might.
Really, Rachael? You expect to twist a cloud
into cotton candy? Hell, who knows? I could.
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