The trowel lies on the lawn
where I dropped it
when Sondra called to ask
'Is it true? Are you gay?'
Now a week later I return to the trowel.
blades of grass are yellowing
beneath the weight of its shank.
How strange that, bereft of light,
blades assume that color,
as though they swallowed the sun.
Nearby, a garden trough
collects spring water
and the grass in rain
grows soft like eider down,
the blades greener
than unripened apples.
A luster glistens on the spot
envied by struggling blades
of a paler green and yellow.
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