The spring sun falling through the window,

on a late winter morning,

hits the same every year.

Like a friend I forgot I could love spilling

into an embrace of remembered warmth.

The trees will blink free from their comas

of mourning. I wonder

if they sometimes grieve

the miscarriage of a particular litter of leaves,

more than the countless others?

I used to try and keep the bubbles in my bath

as pets when I was really little,

I guess it’s a similar thing.


5 thoughts on “A PARTICULAR LITTER

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