Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Thursday, November 10, 2016

Sonnet #132

Rise up, rise up, oh annual rye grass field
The weather's turned colder, and rains have come
The ground belongs to winter weeds and stones
that slowly melt where water kisses and rusts all steel
Rise up, rise up, oh winter weeds, hold the earth
before the snow and ice and wind, we did not plant
a thing, and here you are, ready to stand
America is held in place by roots whose worth
Will always be discounted by the kings
They think there is no profit in the pigweed dirt
They see just weeds and weeds and things
That will never make a seed that's any worth
But in this hum of forgotten ones, let us sing
All that is America is made by your death and rebirth

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