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Drafts, Poetry

When the Park Dreams of Growing Up

First planting your feet.

“Of the earth” they would say “roots in the concrete soil”

Then the suffering of small things: wounded acorns or patches of browning grass never to sprout or grow tall in a cool field.

There are both times and places for these things. Hence our understanding of tarmac.

Too often we are left with the sound of a conversation heard but not understood nor meant for us. Like calling to god through a thick wall.

And that which is meant for us is obscured in static. We are the crackle and fade of a bad connection. Because sound sounds more systerious when one must hold an old drinking glass between ear and door.

And still the acorns have their language, too. They converse with the dying grasses on the subject of poorly planted trees.

Lastly, all of this is merely as real as a dream. We chose to hear or we choose not. We uproot ourselves when we move quickly toward the next muffled sound.



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