My yard—so fully there, so walked over. This willow, this view, every day in every light. Weeping, tarped, still bare, but nothing disappoints.
Thursday, March 2, 2017
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Stopping by
A long time gone: the past settling, vaguer. Suites of seasons, rivers, poems, skies, quiet rooms. Upheavals, of earth and lives. A lost earring. Wanting to have had can be kept like a pressed leaf, colors intact at the end of winter, but no longer as needed.
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