Vol 8, Num 11 :: 2009.05.22 — 2009.06.05
The trees,
like dancing eyed girls,
have dressed themselves
in white and pink.
In the lawn
a seedling forest grows—
maple samara spun and sprouted.
A runner of green expectation
blankets the sidewalk.
Once again, I
wield a broom
sweeping seeds from the
barren cement.
Inevitably,
some will stick to my shoe.
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