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In the devastating cold early spring
I watch the vultures glide from one side of
The sky to the other. There’s a stalk of
Dried up milkweed leaning over a log
Uprooted with half a pod still on whose
Seeds like all of the words in a poem
That were yearning to take form have fallen
On fertile ground. So little’s green now. Just
Babies yet, the leaves of a common weed
Begin to peek—How they will grow and reach
And spread to the size of elephant ears
Which is what we used to call them when we
Were kids pulling them out with great flappings
Imagining what it’s like to have wings.

 

 

 

 

 

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