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February: Thinking of Flowers

by
 Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.
Nothing but white--the air, the light; only one brown milkweed pod bobbing in the gully, smallest brown boat on the immense tide.
A single green sprouting thing would restore me.
.
.
.
Then think of the tall delphinium, swaying, or the bee when it comes to the tongue of the burgundy lily.

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