Tuesday, November 13, 2007

THE GOLF COURSE

It seems as though it’s always been here,
Like my stepmother,
After my mother died,
With harsh cutting,
Choking fumes,
Primping and preening
All day long.

What mother,
Her red-winged blackbird in song,
Perched on bursting cattails,
Hoof-beats on trails,
Water striders skimming across the pond,
Dragonflies darting, hovering,
She’s gone, gone, gone.

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