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My Green

Listen to Ivy read My Green

 

I would speak

of the breeze

but rules whisper against

such obvious observations

in a March garden bed

where blooms a

love that is

against the rules

too

.

Beneath our tree

(which should never be described

for fear of being as sorry

as ones who hold

hope for a love letter that

will never be delivered)

I ask leaves of grass if it hurts

while they wait for their green

to return

.

The leaves look at me

silent

.

They know

I know

it does

.

Telling of a long winter

is forbidden

too

so I pluck a blade of

wanting-for-green

and

stroke it between

my fingers

while a wish

for the chill to leave us

takes flight toward a

happier time

of you

and I

and our in between

mind

.

Sunshine I should not

discuss peaks through

clouds

(that darken things

I should not say)

as if determined to

set things

right

.

It warms me

as I contemplate

not-green leaves

in my

shadow

.

We played here

you and I

during

bedtime dreams

long ago

(on leaves of green

under our

canopy)

.

My shadow darkens

as sunshine warms me

makes me smile

readies me for a new season

(which is another topic

forbidden)

burns away clouds of a winter

it’s ridiculous

not to mention because

winter has a purpose

doesn’t it

?

The leaves smile at me

.

They know

I know

it does

.

I tell them our love

story

(the story that rules say

has no place

in a poem because

it’s all been done

before and nobody

cares anymore)

.

Nobody wants

to read about

love

hearts

butterflies

energizing

springtime breezes

joining

sunshiny moments

that warm me

in

a March garden bed

.

The leaves giggle at me

.

They know

I know

my truth

.

Beneath our tree

our sentinel

waiting to bud

in a March garden bed

I grasp my pen

and paper

and settle onto

my fluffy quilt

binding

scraps of our remembrances

a blanket of comfort

to write a love letter that

will be delivered

because it feels good

to do so

.

I may write of

butterflies

hearts

(love)

bees

or a season

or three

or an oceanic

scene

.

This poem is not for rules

.

It is for me

.

Unlike leaves of grass

beneath our beloved oak tree

in a March garden bed

I no longer hurt

.

I own

my green

(no rules for me)

and

I choose

to

set it free.

***

© 2020, Ivy Blackwater. All rights reserved.

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