gratia plena

you know the way—when

it’s almost-December,

after dark falls and the air

crawls in visible puffs

from the mouths of woolen figures

as they walk home, thinking

of the fireplace—

the way that,

one second,

you feel every pore independently

the burning of ice

on your face, and the next

sensation in your ears is gone?

this year has been, for me

that sort of soft switch;

a year ago yesterday

I wept rivers, drowned battleships

flooded mountain-top-cathedrals

but yesterday yesterday

I cried just a handful of tears

and sprinkled them into my flowerbox.

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