Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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the false green

with winter off its rails,
a whiplash melt from ice
lays bare the lawn,
its blades now gold
and fledgling green,
looking much like march grass,
foretelling sun warmed birthing
an accidental color
it fools the eye and heart
this is not caesar’s month
the cold and snow of janus
will reclaim their space
until the sun extends its reach
into the soil, and pulls spring up