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Four Lines

spring coaxes a last reluctant
branch into the new green of sky
and sun then breathes a near hidden
sigh to make the leaves flutter

Poetry

Four Lines

my roots are long in this small town
and no strangers travel these streets
but I can’t meet their eyes nor greet
their smiles because they’ve let me down

365

Four Lines

it’s new —this year— but it smells old
as if time waits poised to repeat
history’s stink of human greed
faux fundamentals wreaked the polls

365