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
gravity grounding each firmly forward
introducing the teeny possibility of hope.
This is the Hour of Lead
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow
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.