Monday, December 13, 2010





they've left the grass uncut.

in the heat of the afternoon, the fields give off the sweeter smell of flowers finished blooming and beginning to die.

rusty plants pour all their might into seeding for the future- withering stems and roots hunched high in the cracked dry earth...using every means possible- wind, dogs running through the field, our pantlegs- to fling the seeds out into the air.

there to lie, in the scorch of sun and the cool of night, until the rains come again.

help me to remember, when the withering comes, that there will be a gust of wind- or something- that will carry the seed somewhere

and that the rains will water it

and it will grow.

they've left the grass uncut.

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