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The poetry of Margaret Rorke

The Poetry of Margaret Rorke

Poetry for the mind, heart, and funny bone.

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Sunset

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A giant glob —- an orange ball —-
Drops slowly to the lake;
Then in the blue proceeds to fall,
But leaves within its wake
A sky so smeared with brilliant hues
One may presume the saints
Have let the little cherubs use
The mix for finger paints.

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