The grass is not green. I do not
love you. It is not spring.
Not here. They keep giving us snow,
and rain, and grey skies, and
expecting us to be glad. You
keep giving me frost. You desiccate
my fields, over and again; I am barren.
March has not brought back the sun.
Nothing is blooming. No bird songs, no
first soft buds. I do not
love you.

03/29/2004

Posted on 03/29/2004
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