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I'm Waiting For the New Grass
by ellen

I'm waiting for the new grass
of winter in a suspended
and dried, crosshatched field.
The low fog day after gray day
is not enough moisture for me.
I want deluges.

Thistles produce soft purple puffs.
Their prickly bodies look dead.
An unlikely tomato plant, sprung from
some aberrant seed, struggles like a glass-
blower to bring itself to glory—
a red orb of life sustaining juice.

Scrub oaks dig their roots
deeper each autumn,
search for scarce water
as fervently as we search for oil.
I don't have answers
for why we kill for it.

Previously published on line in Pamphlet


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