Sometimes, the spring brings rushes of fresh
newly unpacked air swept in from another neighborhood to mine, having crossed
over and contemplated and let go of and picked up small night songs and early
morning furtive squirrels and moon quieted seas and people sleeping in with
pillows bunched over their faces and small quiet weasels wandering across
conservation fields for a quick brunch. While I lie in bed still and hide my
awakening from the watchful pup and slowly press my cold legs up against my
husband and think of other days and NYC and repairs needed on the roof and
funny moments and eclectic dreams and giving birth. And then yawned and turned
my shoulder into this time I here am given.
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