Marked by weather pattern & daylight, we can

distinguish this spring, would never
think to call any season scale of

loss, but if ever one, this. & maybe
we should rename it, rewrite every

calendar to read where hollow lives
now, like the small boxes we cross

out, live through, & mostly barely.
We’ll remember this month: sharp

contrast, that rough-edged, that hard
won, harder fought, that green, & how

fierce a day could turn or turn against
blossom or what’s rising up or what

bears down. Every season only comes
to mean after before.

 

 

 

 

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