Growing Green

Picture Florida. There’s wet green, there’s dry green.

In a hundred years, it’ll be all wet

Green. My mother’s favorite, like dinner plates

That last a marriage between veggies and sons.

Silly little goose, says my teacher. I stepped

on goose poop, those pellets of grass on sidewalk.

No stops. Everything goes. The traffic lights blink,

Like smiles of tired fathers, Permission granted.

A budding season, a drinking season,

Jinro bottles piling on the hair of dirt.

Love green, a supple heart that doesn’t break

But bends with a lowered head. Crumpled backs

Like discarded pamphlets and dandelions

That drift between linger and languish.

If we tinted the world with one color,

Then we’d all share at least the hue, Problem.

Real jade fades with time—but youths always

Reach for unripe jewels because they shine.

You’re old enough, says my grandmother’s cup.

Less diluted matcha, a greener, bitter taste.