Seedling

Who can bear
the always ending
noise and air
of spring?

Give me coldest cold,
the lowest lows of winter —
a point to be endured —
a point from which to rise —

I was listening
to that fivedollar song,
rain falling through the window,
feeling more or less cheerful than I ought.

These mornings —
a lovely lonely
on purpose
meeting the dawn.

We sit
in a rising gray light,
wait for seeds to wake
and break their bonds.

And facing
the neverending judgement
in the crowd,
this green company is so good.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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