two hundred-ninety nine.

repetition reprise.

there's nothing new
that rests beneath the sun -

in finding this to be true,
she stopped being surprised
with the same old news.

turning her blues into high yellows
and erasing the two lips with tulips
from the field of gracious green grass -

witnessing the growth of what that
never ending repetition produces, there
lies the acceptance of the idea that

there is nothing new
that rests beneath the sun.