Simple Proof from the Green Sunlight (my birthday came and went)

The patient porch, extent for a summer day, then stories of rain in the offing, ships sinking in Gitchee Goomie, terror on the side of goodness... But passing freighters of carelessness confirm standard rebukes: churches controlled by evil dinner parties, frameworks of political activism removed from totaled vacuum cleaner sales, rising sun only at morn... What reference remains for those on the porch, thru serious crisp clouds of green derivative, and the traffic of another day? such practice essentializes into a regard for the days of poetry... When does one sit on the porch? Does the sun castigate issues of the church? Will questions fend for more chairs on the shaded porch's sultry virtue? We live, we love, and presidents die for lack of reading newspapers. Newspapers die, poetry lives, the dog poops in a garden near the church. Yes, strange details mar an otherwise saturated day. We wake, we say yes, we turn no in, we apply differences and send structured responses as varied as the wind. Now more seated restitution, in the dry cool breeze of the porch, where effort runs contrary to portrayal. The news may be terrific someday: our words have been lit.