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when spring awakes,

I am not ready.

my rested bones sigh

at chores ahead.

the gardens demand attention—

feed me, sow me, weed me, turn me.

when spring awakes,

my sleek hair takes on

another life—frizz.

I grumble as the

tidy hoses unfurl,

and brace as I haul

against their weight.

when spring awakes,

I wonder

shall I hoe, plant, harvest, outwit


or shall I give in to another.

Copyright © 2012 by Diane LaSauce All Rights Reserved