I have had dreams,
but I do not believe them,
that there could be green in my yard
where now there is snow.
That birds and flowers
can inhabit trees and plots of earth
now owned by winter crows
and slickly sculpted snow.
That the raunchy chocolate
scent of whispering leafy trees
and the riot of bird courtship
could fill this icy sterile heartscape.
But these dreams of green,
are they facile fraudulent schemes—
like emailed fortunes from Nigeria—
does green even exist?
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