If nothing

With all the weight
of nothing in my hand,
I let it fly
off on the wind.
Smelling wet cold new,
under the dull,
there’s a hidden green.
A walk into the mud —
who is there
to pull back
last year’s growth?
We imagine
we can see into it.
And I’m not saying
I have to put it down.
But my own
heavy heart —
the gray hiding green
with bleak yellow bursts
of aconite
on melting snow —
is already enough,
if nothing,
to carry.

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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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