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  • Winter, I don’t trust you.
    This sorry exit, these whimpering shallow excuses.

    Drip drip.

    How could you?

    Where was your ice pick of cold? Your perfect shroud of white? Your searing blue wind?

    Instead you let flocks of robins sun themselves on the lawn, garlic shoots push through the thawing earth, a full stack of wood lean against the barn.

    Everything is spring silly way too soon. It’s unseemly. Bad form.

    I refuse to listen to the muffled cries of a season that never was. I know better. I know you. You want me to pull the leaf blanket from the daffodils, the straw coverlet from the strawberries. They’re complaining about the heat. You want me to put early seeds in—spinach and beets, fennel and favas. You want me to come out to play.

    And then you’ll come back for one last bite.

    Drip drip.

    I've got my eye on you.

    Coward.
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