the creek inside my jar grumbles

with the wisdom of many years,

the tea leaves float like buoyant lilies

on my way every morning

I grasp the warm glass in my hands

and I remember where my feet have been

before, where the grass has felt my shoes

around me, growing in the dirt,

plastic turns to dusty fossils,

budweiser remnants, shards,

in my mind, I whisper to the wind

and it sings back to me, almost crazily,

so I walk again

surrounding myself in green.

(Rachel Landau)


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