After James Wright
The dream of spring drapes the Wasatch Front; even the fault lines quiver—questioning their own obviousness contrasted against frozen seeds. No green peeks or hovers: that color beyond the dream, that color of stems and new leaves and scattered laughter. Her baby darts unseen as a fish under the dark ocean. Her baby does not know to dream spring. She tries to hold him—still—but within her he is beyond reach. He whispers that he is more than an idea, draping himself over her faults (so obvious) this thawed green seed.
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