The snow has mostly given way now to the flattened grass.
Some people have been very excited to see its return. Not me. To me it looks like the coat of an exile. Faded, drained, pressed down. Dirty in places. He's been walking too long. Doesn't think he'll ever find a bed except for death.
Funny that should bother me.
I guess because it bothers him--the grass looks so sad. It feels diminished. Tired. I don't like that. If it would help, I'd run my fingers through it, the coat of the exile, the soft hair of the earth. I'd kiss it and tell it I love it.
Maybe I should. Maybe the earth would know. Maybe that matters.
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I've been coughing for so many nights now. In his sleep, he puts his hand to my back. Trying to help.
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I remember our earliest days, inventing tenderness in narrow beds. Hoping that the walls would keep our sighs and secrets safe.
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Here in the northern places, the earth comes out of winter stoop-shouldered. As if the sparkling of the snow was a lie, or a pleasure bought at the cost of suffering below. Yes, that beaten grass is the cost of the snow.
But then the buds come.
