Real
I look out my window
and see what is real.
Trees, bark encrusted,
rough my hands; cool
leaves, cherry blossoms,
white and vibrant, writhe
in the bee-blurred light.
Yes, these things
are real,
and yet,
turning inward,
to our secret room,
I find you
waiting,
breathing,
real.
poem by Steven Federle
Added by Poetry Lover
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