but it does,
Graupel bouncing off my thrift shop sleeve.
The yard is sopping, the field flatttened,
Melt runs in the ditch,
tendrils of yellow mud
Unfurling beside the road of broken stones.
I'm supposed to have half my woodpile still,
but I don't.
You're not supposed to hear
Your daughter's final breath,
but I did.
The dog leads the way into the woods,
A raven croaks, lifts off heavy
And black as forever
into the curdling sky.
Time is supposed to ease loss,
but it doesn't.
