At Spring’s Break

After great pain, a formal feeling comes
Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs
The stiff Heart questions will I ever be light again?
Am I good enough, or good at all?
Will the sun warm my insides bright and kind?

The Feet, mechanical, go round
right, left, right, left
the tiny hand on a clock ticking
without force,
gravity grounding each firmly forward
introducing the teeny possibility of hope.

This is the Hour of Lead
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow
then Stupor
then the letting go

Like a paper boat
gently blowing down the pond
the feeling melts
as slow and as quick as ice
at spring’s break.
Day 5 NaPoWriMo 2015


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