My Midwestern Roots

Don't look at my hair to find them, look into
My eyes to sense the cindered indicators 
Of what makes me tick, I'm a lick less fixed 
Than you might suppose, I rose from crushed oak leaves 
We raked 'til just ahead of dark, when larks 
Resumed their dawn chorus within our hearing 
And soon winter tauped all manner of gray 
Toward our headway into a thin spring, 
When plants punched above their feeble weight class 
To face sky, the shift from season to season 
Contrasted with my desert home where fragrance 
Pronounces color codes the citrus crown 
Hovering above wildflowers pasteling 
Their micro-blooms to the overhang of light


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