Thursday, May 03, 2001

Did this happen overnight?

Sprays of forsythia trail Impressionist crome yellow thumb-smears across morning lawns: the poetry of half-remembered names from longago summers spent tall and tanned and spade-in-hand—rhodeys and pinks exploding, sweet woodruff, phlox and flaming Judas like fireworks in the eye. When did this happen? Have I been asleep?

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