Good Things

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An acrostic poem.

Gobs of gravy on mashed potatoes made with sour cream, chives, and butter.

Oddballs.

Odd numbers—especially primes.

Daisies and sunflowers, arranged together.

Transformations into better natures.

Humans. (Or humanity, anyway.)

Individual thoughts accepted by a larger whole, strung together in a bracelet that does not call for the same beads so much as patterns.

Nothingness.

Good things come in various packages, so I don't know why small ones get all the credit.

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