March 30

After dinner

It’s eight. We march
into the backyard
single file, the sky a light
blue, leaning toward night.

Planets turn bright
towards the horizon
and we begin weeding. Life
shoots first with all its might

and so we wrestle tufts
and blooms and tongues
from the earth. Some succumb.
Some hold firm. Some

we must tear and tug
with a whip of our necks,
but still we rip,
immutable, the day

from its clutches,
the last of it hanging
from our teeth, from our stern
brown eyes and laughing.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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