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Where the Willow Won't Weep This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

By BlueFoot, Reston, VA

There Is a place
I think
my mother once told
me of yellow-green pastures
past where crackled roads rolled
two turns past the playground
and its stinging jokes
and three more past the old pond
and its frog's throaty croaks
Past the thin waitresses huddled
taking smoke breaks in the cold
past the tunnel under the freeway
where most business goes untold
past the butchers on the corner
dark sweat on white shirts
past the corners of the city
where the broken ones lurk
past Mr. Johnson's farm
and his sweat-trickled brow
past the fence in his yard
holding brown-spotted cows
walk till steel and cement melt to clovers and sky

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