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Just as the backyard pear
these long peach limbs
cut down last month because of disease
and lying piled
waiting to be burnt
are, as I feared,
budding, and blooming.
Three weeks of sap
and softwood fiber swelling
with the idea of five thousand pink blossoms;
persistent, dead, yet undead.
Really, it’s exactly like hair growing
in the grave, or a corpse
bellowing in the cremator.
Or exactly like the memory
of fifty years past,
the moment that terrified then
will come to these flowers.
Then they will brown, and shrink.
One last effort.
Maybe the blossoms will open, but be dry,
fooling the bees as I am not fooled.
I am fooled, so long is the winter,
so thirsty am I.
First poem in such a long time, I had to celebrate by getting some eyes on it. Second act of celebration will be to finish a journal for myself so I can use it for more poetry. This one was written on a notepad that really should just be used for grocery lists. Or not. Regardless, I need a new journal.