Poetry: The Whitman

by: Joshua Barton

Your leaves are gone. I have looked for your precious leaflets and
I have searched for their veins soaked in morning dew,
The spider twirling her orbs between their stems,
The stinkbug awaking beneath their shield and shade,
The country boy smelling their wildflowers,
Your leaves are gone but no bother,
We’ve honored you with an ad for skinny jeans instead.

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