no one mows the hills here.

the grass in wilted clumps shines green,

just laying there for whoever.

dogs and vagrants. cyclists. the birds.

anyone bold enough to chance the cobbles.

tomorrow, maybe, 23rd will be impossible,

iced over and white. this is the last moment

folks up on the hill will venture down

in search of coffee or the grocery salad bar

while the grass is still so green and ready.

so acquiescent. so deeply itself.


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