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Hydrangea Strong

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After all the storms pass
roof tiles, tree limbs
fallen to the ground
and all our crackled roads
show the slow wear of weather
while in the garden
last year’s hydrangeas
soft brown blooms,
tissue paper rustle
somehow still stand

grave robin

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cemetery fence—black iron
knocked to the ground
though the gate is still latched.
Dusk and a robin
perch on a gravestone
for the spectacular view

tree dreams

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tree thoughts crowd the sky,
drift above these blue gray hills—
drink in these green dreams
now, before they wake
Another delight of early spring

Max

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When I feel bad
about homeless cats
I remind myself of
Worse Things—
mass graves, tsunamis,
plagues or fires or famines,
other disasters man-made or
natural. A list that
horrifying but true
could go on for a long, long time.
Halfway through the seventh stanza
most of the homeless cats have grown bored
and wandered away to settle their own fates.
Except for you. Only you linger,
ready for any story I want to tell,
as long as my voice stays soft and I remember
that one part of the one story you care about—
the part where I scratch the perfect spot behind
your always-wary ears.

March 27

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Yesterday’s birthday?
My mother’s. I know for sure
what choice she would make.

In my quiet house
endless choosing for others—
Syllables, and weight
so many, so much.
Responsibility pounds
on my closed front door

Oh grow up, I shout.
So I did. What did I get
for all that effort?
Rooms, roads, and choices
and Responsibility
humming in my head

green dresses

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Late March, trees still bare
All their wiring shows—they are
stretching for the green dresses

 

Protest Rally

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trees in our town
held a long, slow protest rally
roots cracked all our roads

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I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

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