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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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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