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I walk out

past the garden and tulip poplar,

the new bees and established hive,

through the trees where the wind 

snags on branches, too netted 

to snatch my hat. 


Along the far field

by the long grass with bubbles 

tucked in its tufts, a black butterfly, 

blue on its edges and red in the center 

of its tail, flits around, restlessly 

alighting in low grass, 


then riding the breeze

smoothly, up and down the runway 

patch of mown earth. How many things

thrive best unattended? What kinds of growth 

need truancy, need left alone, need nothing 

of anxious forethought?

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