Returning

Carry it down deep.
Seven days of exposure
wreak such havoc,
and this retreat
is a chance
to take the measure
of these changes.
The ice has almost gone.
A mute swan rides the edge,
and the bluebirds
are staking out
their nesting grounds.

It progresses
when our backs are turned,
and we search anew
for what is safe to touch.
My uncrossed arms
invite the world to nest here,
and I am surprised to find
it does not diminish me.
This alluvial movement
only leaves more sediment —
rich and dark —
a place for seeds.

And in seven days,
there is more to be held
than you might think.
His changes are disarming,
but still,
adaptation is slow.
Wait for the settling,
for the new to rub off.

It’s a puzzle,
and I examine and rearrange
the pieces,
working out
how these shapes
might fit together
again,
knowing all along
that it’s nothing
we can’t solve
with a little fooling around.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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