It's bright outside:
The seasonal slant of light has shifted again
Blue grey, to green gold
Already preparing us for
Early Spring bulbs to burst
Through hard ground
I sit sideways by my yellow table, eating
A crisp, late Winter's apple
The still cool air slips in under the lip of the window that won't quite close
Over the dusty rows of books lined up on my sill,
Like a younger lover, insistent I walk with her down to the river
Perfumed steam from the first floor — someone is doing laundry.
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