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by Len Krisak

 
                                
                        

 
 



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Breakthrough



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Their presence valued more because unbidden,
A few green blades appeared today where snow
Had lain and kept the fine, sparse grasses hidden.
First seen of all the yard: a patch down low;
A dead spot lying where the sun, all week,
Had shone through limbs and surely, slowly grown.
So small those scattered threads could barely peek,
They waited there to bristle on their own,
Till more would show, by then announced. To watch
This coming stubble start to fill my lawn
The way my father’s good-night beard would scratch,
I waited fifty years. To hear it speak,
I let it come, like memory rough-sawn,
And push through snow so pale it was his cheek.

  
Image from the Birds, II by Len Krisak
 

          

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