What a balm to tread green grass.
The fresh-cut smell banishes winter,
though you can tell (barely, these days)
what month we're in: the hollyhocks
are as tall as a teen girl; they sway
awkwardly, waving elephantine leaves.
The sea recedes but no one heeds
tsunami warnings. Sun glints off the sand.
Let's take refuge here beneath palm ferns
and count their spores. "I've always
hated lawns," you whisper...
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