If you as I worry the roots
upending sod in a scramble
to find the seed that did not take
water, the work is to add dirt,
pat it down but keep earth's soil soft,
let the stem rise, new buds appear,
for what does worry do to change
beauty’s face but deepen the lines
waiting to be filled where the years
stir clouds until dark turbulence
arrives, flowers fold their slender
shapes, air spins the warm with the cold
before you as I flee to coasts
where the missing animals are.
(15 July 2011)
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