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by Gregory Luce "I remember the way the mimosa tree buttered the shade Outside the basement bedroom, soaked in its yellow bristles." - Charles Wright I too remember mimosas two of them in my grandparents’ yard the pink bottle-brush blossoms helicoptering down the almost-not-there scent trailing and how I had to sweep them off the driveway or scrape them when the rain glued them down to the concrete how hateful the labor and how much would I give to do it again now as my grandfather finishes mowing the lawn after dinner and starts the sprinklers and we go inside for one last iced tea cicadas burring the evening air. Gregory Luce was born in Texas and still resides below the Mason-Dixon line in Washington, D.C., where he works as production specialist for the National Geographic Society. He is the author of two chapbooks, "Signs of Small Grace" and "Drinking Weather." His poems have appeared in Kansas Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Innisfree Poetry Review, If, Northern Virginia Review, Juke Jar, Praxilla, Little Patuxent Review, Buffalo Creek Review and in the anthology, "Living in Storms." To find out more, visit his blog or follow him on Twitter @dctexpoet. 

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