For Mary

When I heard you were gone
It was my brother, a poet, who told me. I read it, in tiny ant letters on my phone and then instinctually looked out the window at the bare trees.
I mark time by the branches in the backyard
And the tiny snowdrops that spring up out of nowhere in central park
And the light which fades and comes back again and fades and comes back again.
The world moves in its circles,
The seasons,
The moons,
And so do we. We start and end the same: small, alone, inward as a flower bud unfurling in the sun.
Tonight, reflecting back in the window was more than my sadness illuminated,
It was the new snow falling as softly as my mother’s hands on mine
As a bird’s wing
As a lambs bleeting
As a poem-balm to a burn when your heart aches to say goodbye to someone you never knew.

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