We need to separate
to see the life we’ve made,
to leave our house
where someone waits, patiently,
warm beneath the sheets;
to don layers of armor,
sweater, coat, mittens, scarf,
to stride down the frozen road,
putting distance between us,
this cold winter morning,
to look back and see,
on the hilltop, our life,
lit from inside.
Published with kind permission of the poet.
It’s all a farce,—these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o’er…
what if forgiving was easy? what if overcoming heartache was as simple as a long…
The grass seems lusher in the wet gray air, but less approachable now through a…
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