The meadow whispers to me – why
can’t I feel the grass between my fingers?
Has winter consumed me so long
I can no longer remember the light, the breeze?
Has this city-locked life mowed them down
for another parking lot or shitty condo
constructed with a hunger in their design:
money, money, money, money.
Maybe the snow has gotten to me,
maybe I ought to close my eyes and wait
for spring to come crashing down
and follow the whispers all the way back home.
-Zero
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