87.

The peas came in regardless.
Shelling them is as it ever was.
The landscape so altered it’s
easier to notice things
that are the same.
It’s the time of year
that Portlanders go nuts
for patios at the barest
hint of sun. Yet, we
must count the days
on our fingers and marvel
at the speed of change.

I’m not sure there’s a place for poetry
on the eighty-seventh day.

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