Through the boy who is me at the moment,
quite out of his mind,
wed to his shadow on the grass
as he twirls to keep it twirling,
and the clatter of the mower whirling
through a still spring morning—
through a still spring morning—
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Narrative is a hundred percent reader-supported. If you love what you’re reading, please make a one-time or monthly tax-deductible donation. Your gift of $60 or more includes a 1-year Backstage Pass with special features and exclusive previews.
