Forsythia

The shrubs near the playground turn
a color I do not care for.
It makes me run slow.
It makes me run out of breath.
While the other girls twist the branches into crowns,
adorning all who would play king or queen,
I, sick from its ubiquity, break
off a branch, strip
off its flowers, and whip
the air.

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Published in: on March 24, 2011 at 11:12 pm  Leave a Comment  

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