A New Weather

Paul Strand: Young Boy, Gondeville, 1951

I buried the noun; I planted
the verb. What on Earth could I harvest
from the hard word?
I wondered.
Winter — the year’s chill hinterland —
makes no promise to anyone, even
to green thumbs. Spring —
season of profuse adjectives
unfurls everywhere its exuberant-convoluted foliage
in contrast to my fr-agile, tender rhythms,
to all my seedling grammar.

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