That spring I felt the green buds open on skeletal trees.
Near a
winding path of ash as the river grew ripe in the slanting sun,
thoughts became places.
We watched the Sunday-best children,
impaled on shining communion medals, smile at a camera`s jagged
edge.
The sky turned to dying lilac.
And I remember watching
you walk away in a heaviness of thunder and the first drops falling
like winter-tipped arrows
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