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lost and found at tiny thing

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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