I thought to post thank-you notes
but so many end up recycled. 
There is no more space in your box. 
People should keep the words 
they send to each other for grey hours 
when things seem fine then 
someone hits you in the face. 
Out of luck. 

Only riverbank meadows have
all the time in the world. 
Their pulse slows to a teardrop
before any changes in weather. 
They turn to cement, to salt 
and root clumps, for winter seeps 
through layers of sunset under 
a glass ceiling. 

Blessed be those looking ahead. 
They see just the edges but sleep 
in the middle of things. They dream 
their children when someone dies 
in the neighbourhood. The funeral 
takes place at an airport. 

Our tree chopping season grows 
heavy with chalk: burial site for
the things we once loved that 
have fallen and broken in to pieces.


© Maria Stadnicka, MMXXIII / Quintilis