Sitting in the meadow in the early morning

I can’t enjoy anything as it is

Because everything is some kind of smug, smiling metaphor about you.

A teeny purple flower optimistically popping out of short grass in early spring is you.

A book of poems I am holding in my lap is you.

Even the poem inside about the Civil War is you, too.

Quite and stillness, of course you.

Trees bending, you.

Cars parked in the driveway, less obviously, but still you.

The rolling hills of the countryside, you.

The cloudless sky, polka dotted with birds

Most certainly you.

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