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The grass grows
The grass grows
It can be
Quiet
When the sun settles upon the ridge
While we sit on the wisteria-shaded porch.
The light makes us squint
And your words
Slide into me with the tea.
It can be
Loud
When we stir warmly in our wrinkled bed
In the morning. The dog sits before the bed
As if all night he has guarded
Our dreams
Back to reality’s shore.
It can be
Disquieting
Alone in the darkness after you have retired
And my thoughts, like sharp-edged moths,
Scuttle the thoughtful mood
I sought
To establish after you retired.
Nothing in this world
My love
Is perfect so forgive me the occasional grimace
The harsh word, clenched fist and empty stare
Into the rolling, grey light
Of a world
I sometimes feel escapes me.
Sometimes while you
Sleep into
A world I can never venture, I creep outside, push
The dog away, shed my daytime clothes, naked
Stand in the middle of the backyard
And howl
My misery upon the grass.
In the morning
I am
Always surprised to find
The lawn, although teary,
Still green.
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