Green
Here in Oregon
the green is aggressive
popping out against the eye
in moving shades
that climb low mountains
and jut up in reaching pines
as thin and coiffed as
someone's amateur painting
and the azaleas and rhododendrons
explode into lush bunches
of delicate wet flowers
purple and pink and fuchsia
that hang in voluptuous clumps
over emerald patches of grass
that butt up against small houses
with peaks that match
their miniature pines
Everywhere life seems to be
thrusting up against the cracks
breaking the pavement with
fecund urgency
and the feeling infects the wet air
like pollen
"Everything smells fresh," Lizzie says
and I have to agree
though for the moment I feel
as ancient as the hills that surround us
wrapped in a furling blanket
of creeping cloud
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