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Poem: Against Spring 

How unlike my spirits
this abundant freshness
of spring, each green
an experiment, like a girl
trying on, first time,
lipstick and stockings.
How old I feel against
the heavenly blue
of days, the late light
picking up jewels
of early blooms,
softening limbs
performing in space
like dancers. I lost
my slippers years ago
—perhaps in the fire
that led to woman-
hood—so I do not
join the chorus. I pull
on a metaphysical cigarette,
sip harsh scotch, wear
rolled socks and blue jeans
taste the coarse green
of bitterweeds—
what the cows eat that
makes their milk sour.

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Speaking of Poetry

  • A poem by Alice Rose George.

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