I will never step on my lawn. The short bristles act as strong stalks;Protector of milk-washed glass grapes. Dry wind builds; stalks now firm and sharp,Housing morning dew and crisp heat,For the miracle greeting dawn. I sit upon the bank, criss-crossed,Waiting for olive green flippers,To follow their instinctive waves,Guided by nothing but oneness. I am not wary, but cautious. We...
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