Wildfire
Sip This
When it stinks, stay
Geronimo’s hair
Oranges
Poetry Poem
Bronzeville by Night (1949)
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Waiting
Spring was never promised
but we were built for this.
We have turned our backs
on clocks and count silences
inside barns, without despair.
We face with patient eyes
determined to wait, wait out
winter and survive, taking it.
What it is, it is. Enduring this
until what is next, comes along.
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