Love Songs to Those Who Have Stopped Speaking to Me


It is winter but someone is cutting the grass
with a lawnmower. And the hydrangea is starting
to push out new leaves. All that's typically
green is coming out of the musty
armoire of sleep.
A shelf of ice has shorn away from Antarctica.
I'm waiting for an app or a drone to check
the faulty wiring in these machines.
A chorus of orchids, talking
among themselves indoors.
Beyond the hedge, a bird is calling goodbye.

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