Wednesday, March 5, 2014



Soon, flowers.

Gray for now.

For how long will the dark bones
of the tree
have to take this snow.

What’ll this year’s crop of snows
amount to, months more, sixty snows more.
All winter long,

the serviceberry steadies its voice.

Later, white petals,
same tree full of white moths come to say

The ground is soft enough to dig
your graves.

1 comment

  1. Those last couplets are beautiful, Hannah.

    Wonderful works by Nascimento.


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