Sleeping Equinox

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Rough edges of spring barely beginning

sightings of old brown ground . .

long lamenting winter’s discontent

April: the fool’s own jester

Perhaps we deceive ourselves

into thinking winter will begin to disappear

leaving no traces of its existence

We fear this season will be fleeting

Barely appearing

A verdant apparition

A lush hallucination

A grassy delusion

We await the unfolding

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