Loss does not hit
until you are treading
a preponderance of pine
and you hear it:

crows

softened by snow.

Or until you return
a shopping cart. You notice
the others scattered about
as though life were too hard
not to abandon them.

Finally, when you pour yourself
a drink, and you find no drink
meets your thirst. It hits:
this burst—this wanting thing.

That is why morning is like spring.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1.