I would have crafted a fine poem for you
had I known this day was yours.
It would have been a grand attempt
to illumine your qualities
and brighten your countenance.
Instead I tripped blindly through the hours,
unseeing, unknowing, unaware
until the time had almost past
for new words to flow
from my mind to the paper to you.
Yet I would give you more than an image or two
should providence allow letters to congeal.
So please forgive this poor attempt to fill
the blank page that scowls and twists
like a hanged man in the wind.
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