RECOLLECTION
In this first cold of Winter - nine degrees -
the ice is hanging from the loom, and a mother
who died in the kitchen now sings in the other
room. A tea-cozy, hand-knitted, it seems,
of one shape or another, is at rest next to
a toaster on the pale-green counter-top.
'Anyway, Death be not proud' the
embroider reads. A thin light crosses
from another vantage the view across
the yard. My eyes wander and,
again it seems, I can't keep them
down, or at least it's hard.
down, or at least it's hard.
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