Landscape awakens in
big brawling Cezanne canvas
french countryside in Spring,
brush strokes imagined,
so you almost feel you can touch the wind,
it's tangible color laden wind
twists through your hair impatient
and like blue Easter egg time machine
you go backward through mossy green meadow grasses,
dandelions sensing warm rain and lazy cloud sky wisp,
till we're left standing under some neo-classical
suburban mall ruins (ivory carefully planned) reliefs,
your high heeled shoes click-clacking
forward by pedestrian crossings and changing
spring styles, (it's getting to be there's a new
ancient scent of flowers free of dirt hibernation)
life is crossing some time-dilation
without us, living linear in the dark matter of space
where you're always standing just out of sight
and laughter carries over paved pavillion roads
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