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A planter of flowers in downtown Chicago


Midwestern Spring,
I am listening
to your pink-yellow wisdom
and your steel stubborn airs.

In my overcoat and hat,
I marvel at your flowers
whose delicate skin
shows not one goosely bump.

You say “it is May!”
though the lazy degrees
linger too long in bed
and only rouse themselves to forties.

You say “this is who I am!”
and do not even tremble
when winter mocks
and spreads shade against your faith.

I wonder then
if your cups open to drink the sun
or if the sun only remembers itself
upon seeing your upturned face.

I want to echo this scene;
to stand steadfast on point
despite harsh winds, so that my trueness
may call back the light.

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