There's a certain surrender
to being an optimist-one which begins
with the day but, in fact, begins
with the evening. With dusk
crocheted into winter & a girl's dress
hanging by the hem of nightfall.
We find things most beautiful
in the act of their dying. Bright
red leaves. A refusal to eat. The child
who goes to school & the mother
who drives back from school
alone. Yet here, the birds are so lurid
against an opalness of sky. The rain,
serener than we'd ever imagined. Someone,
always, to speak with ease & someone
to cover the eyes. Let me contemplate
my own role in this, or let me burrow within a frailty
of prayer. The cold, an interminable elegy.
There's nothing left to forgive. Twice,
I was long ago buried. I discover
this thing called snow.
Snow, Almost, Nearly by Susan L. Leary | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
