Wild Salmon

He was a rock. Never mean.

When she went too far off;

Just slowly he would reel in the line.

Waiting patiently. Her mind running wild.

Anticipation of butterflies and nerves

And half wondering if really means what he says,

Knowing he could have her; whole heart on her Greensleeves.

Caught with a bite, a wild salmon in autumn runs;  

All perfect conditions of bluish greenish waters,

And ready for running off into the perfect pinkish sunset.

Published by Ms. Selective

Traveling Gypse with a Heartfelt Spirit.

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