Like a flower, because of
its softness, because
I left the laundry rumpled
and unfinished--
I'm out of something
always--
shirts,
detergent, and will you believe
me when I say
I stood outside
and cupped my hands together--
there was gravel masking
as dirt clods in the
grass, and only
dandelions grew near the
irrigation ditch; empty spring water.
I told myself if I could write
again without that loss to
overtake me
I would tangle my fingers
in praise--
I have been so lucky
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