Working On It

Squeezing the juice from the lime
the scent that bleeds
is magnificent,

when every letter doubles
to an illegible pace
dripping words into a juice box

that produces health in letters:
B1, B2, D, AA, B7, Melatonin,
dreams left unrendered
of stockings and styrophoam
planes, floating to freshly cut grass

beside a tree line that blossoms
to the scent of wild grapes, birds
feasting on the blossoms, sacred,

chirping to the sound of hay mills
in the distance, while jetstreams
disappear overhead, only visible
to the secret nest where dreams
and fox and deer fawn rest, safe,

anticipating a life yet unknown
hoping to avoid the danger
of passing cars and predators.


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