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Poem 50
October 1, 2015
One time, I heard someone
talking about how
the grass grows
and I pondered this
while shaping clouds
in my eyes
and walking over,
under,through
this wild field of a
farmer's hands.
I suppose the grass sprouts
where God puts it
and it dies
in the exact same spot
a lifetime later.
So I'll outrun this
world and leave
quite unlike the grass,
a million miles away.
© Michelle W., Ada, MI
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