in my hand like an orange unpeeled and sweet. Who knows the logic of undercurrents. Still snowing. Still bleating somewhere. If you want to hear a story, do not ever, ever ask me. My thoughts are ribbons. One time the dead did not ever, ever ask me a story, nor do they tell me stories, and yet I love them, and nearly believe in them. As I believe in the chilled fragrance of roses, or how pine leans into its yellow bloom sky of pollen, and where did the dead go? Snow falls in its own imperial way upon the neighborhood, tumbled voices in the kitchen, and the world isn’t the world we mistake it for, burrowed in like rabbits just below surface of grass, hidden by its own fur, and the daffodils thinking about rising soon, just thinking, translating joy, and crocus soon up first of all, quickly they will rise and I love you, for I am not a woman of policy
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