What would you tell your past self if you could?

Nothing about the grass 
or what kind of green it could be 

elsewhere. Nothing about bad
apples, children picked 

out of the dustbin; calendar pages 
to turn until you came to the page 

marked I told you so. If you could, 
you'd tell your body instead to think 

of how heat, as it rises, can polish
the air. How one day the burned 

fields grow back somehow, 
even if you leave them.  

A leaf can still be tender; fruit 
cannot help but push out seed. 

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