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Beyond January.BY JENNA CARDINALE
and a bit more about vegetables. But the color cannot always be green— Does a hero wear oversized mittens? Winter is a time for roots, a time to climb every available staircase. I approach the cold, the unending staircase— Burdened like bread by butter. Posed into a tree, I grow roots stronger than thick yellow vegetables & I'm stewed, warmed by woolen mittens and liquor that makes me green. Waiting to see the start of green is a chore, like a narrow staircase. There are moth-made holes in my mittens. I dream of daffodils and butter, but never of ripe vegetables. I feel the weather in my roots. There's something red in my roots, no matter my hopes for green. I swallow my melted vegetables, stare up at the staircase. My body has become butter— A hero, I wear broken mittens. I stitch up my mittens with yarn as coarse as roots. I'm breaking it off with butter, determined to start out green. Still, halfway up the staircase, I hide some uneaten vegetables beneath carpeting decorated with vegetables. Yesterday I lost my mittens, but I found them on the staircase. In inconsistency, I've found my roots and branches, now sprouting green. I think less and less of butter. A diet heavy with butter and vegetables makes me green, envious of the journey of mittens unraveling down the staircase, lost little roots.
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