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Some Sort of Sorrow


In the yard Pine Grosbeaks

serenely feed on spruce seeds;

here is family of two adults and their young,

moving along the surface of the snow.

These are birds of constancy,

never migrating, content in the fallen snow.


I watch them take a glorious bath

fluttering in the powder.


I open the door to listen

to their soft, whistled conversations.


I go outside, and even though

I know

I don’t belong,


I lie down

in untouched snow.


I lie down in the snow for serenity.

I lie down in the snow for motionlessness.

I lie down in the snow because I am unclean

and for this, I ache for conversation.

I lie down in the snow to gather it in my bare hands

and spread it over the sorrow of my self.


The birds, disturbed,

rise around and above me.

On my back,

mesmerized and freezing,

I watch them fly

until outside

my reason.


All your life

haven’t you been sullied with

some sort of sorrow,

and all your life haven't you hoped

to cleanse it?

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