When I open the door the warm air surprises me. Blue, blue sky, sun bright, I walk poems to the mailbox.
It’s always new and always the same. After awhile you can sort of skate over the pain like it was ice.
This morning I woke in time to see the blood rose sunrise and my breath in the cold air.
Sometimes a laugh or a piece of music that played us to sleep, the reflection of my mouth in that same disapproving line.
A soft breeze whirls a few leaves around. Over the house , the bare grey branches sway. Wisps of clouds blow across the blue blue sky, racing me to the mailbox. The sun is warm, the air cool as I walk down to the mailbox to post a poem.
Bare branches outside my widow make a heart.