The heart is a broken record, a botched
detour, a scallywag, a scab.
Mourning does not rescue or provide an exit.
The slender apple boughs arch and fiddle
in the light wind. Clouds are deep
groans, too close to the sorrow, too far
from the feckless sun. April greens
struggle against the leaden grays.
I only have false gods but in a momentary
trick of light, I see the shape
of a red petal, a dogwood leaf, the rising
shoots of lilies of the valley,
and feel myself rooted in the spring mud.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 1.
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