Atticus

He,

Is one of those gloriously strange mysteries.

The kind with,

Messy brown hair,

And green eyes.

He drinks green tea,

A habit started,

By  one of his friends,

But he has to have,

Lots of honey,

Because he is,

Anything but bitter.

He has a picked jean jacket,

With strings dangling off,

The roughly cut bottom,

And dried desert weeds,

Twirled around,

The buttonhole.

His friends are little wild,

And they all hate Twislers,

But the best friends,

Are the wierd friends.

His room is an orderly mess,

Of dried plants pinned to his walls,

A white bed spread,

And index cards,

With latin plant names,

That have a few smudges,

From his hurried writing.

Thick plant books,

And pocket-sized field guides,

Fill his small ceder bookcase,

And a basil plant,

Sits on his window sill.

He is one of those mysteries,

Dotted with honesty,

Quirkiness,

And integrity,

And those are the best kinds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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