W I L L   S C H M I T

 

I planted strawberries
for the inheritors of the earth
whether they be meek,
or Martians.

These modern poems require letters
to stand up for themselves
six feet apart or six feet
deep in the heart.

The stay at home truth has roots in the dirt,
a hope for blossoms, fruit.
The springing groundcovers send feelers
into town under the safety of bees.

Now the rain cleanses everything
outside the window. The streaking glass,
our new caretaker, frames
heaven as episodic.

My tinge of green grove aims
for your blue glove. The promise
of tasting good seems trivial,
until breakfast.

The garden rows spell help.
You can only read it from above,
only believe it in the palm
of tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 


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