Night

Green is as sharp and bitter
as the taste
And crunch
of a stink bug
Buried deep in the smooth
Sweetness
Of warm fresh blackberries
Covered in the crunch
Of Kelly Road dirt
It smells faintly
Of Queen Anne’s Lace
Skinned knees
And horse shit
It is as cold
As the stones
In the bottom of the spring
As hot and sweet
as the mows of hay
As unbelievably loud
As the spring
In Hamilton’s woods
And as silent
As the peepy frogs
In the pond
Below Helen’s

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