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lost and found at tiny thing
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poem on the day of the spring equinox
the winter enters her so silent, it slants in and squats her; the thin time of Lent her skin's a curtain between cold and cold
naked, she fills up with the city snow and frozen trash; she's a container for rain-pocked slush and the brown mash at the gutter's edge; the cold moulds her, bleak in the park
there is no prince, no melting kiss; she simply endures the dark months of the occupation, the aching embrace - like a root
till March loosens her
then there's a white insurrection of crocuses, each one blooms close and full as an egg; how their purity hurts
she must learn to open her yellow heart
Michele Roberts
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