in which patches dot the patch

when the wind comes from the north, it carries an unexpected force to so small a patch

picking up debris effortlessly and tossing it down without effort. to work against such

carelessness requires sore knees and patience for each small piece of earth is somehow changed,

as if discarded. drooping leaves ask for water, yellow ones for food and all the while

birds hop about scavenging for worms. this wind finds plastic in the air and slams

it down among my plants as if to show us we have not cared enough. i watch for each

casual gust, planning which plants will patch up the patch, bending like a crab apple


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in which twilight brings air

slate baked; even the lizards

ran for cover and every plant

bent double, aching from

the strain of facing up to sun

relentlessly, cloudlessly. no

sounds until the twilight hour

when creatures felt the turn

of light and ventured out

across to air as tremulous

cadences moved the night.

That was before the wind.


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