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April 21, 2023_there are poppies amid growing grass

by Richard Reynolds

There are poppies amid growing grass

Along the roadside bank;

They hide the rock on which they grow.

That rock is solid, uneven, gray, old,

Crumbly here, crumbled there,

But still rock solid, covered some by damp soil

That once was rock itself.

The roots seek minerals, I think,

And the rock feeds them geology,

Turning to dirt in the effort.

Along the bike lane they grow and decay

Against traffic into town,

3,000 miles west of the Chambersburg Pike

And Taneytown Road; sure it's passed, but,

What would the Generals have done here?

Every Northern boy, too, Faulkner.

Every Northern boy knows it too.

They are back together again, she said.

I didn't know they were apart. And from what?

They weren't married. But the complexity of that "what"

Staggers the makeup of "marriage". Like the proud Bastard Edmund, right?

Not some dutiful semi-weekly: A love child,

No impediments allowed.

Past Dana Court, now. (To court, to woo)

Back into town, now, only one little round hill away.

They are old, now, too old for this

Staying or rejoining; do they even live together

These rocks and the grass and poppies?

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