SCRAPHEAP 1

Green grass blankets the meadow
shy flowers open up to eager bees.
Neither comes without the other.
Both stand ready to present
and ready to receive.

Just how it is every season.
Just how it ought to be

——

Winter didn’t leave
with a soft snowfall
and Spring blazed by
wrapped in Summer.

——

The cold.
The quiet.
I like it
huddled in the woods
on a winter midnight
crisp clear stars
and clouds of breath
ghostly whispers
shadows
nothingness.
And me —
stiff body
at sunrise
soft shivers
surviving.
The cold.
The quiet.

I like it.

—-

You wrote this
you wrote this
you
wrote this
and it’s not interesting or good
or award-worthy
but it’s you
a piece of you
and you wrote this
you wrote this
you.

Try not to forget me
too soon.

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