Lost And Found - Poem by Karen Petersen
April isn’t the cruelest month,
it’s March, the month my father died
all shrunken, wasted, finally beaten
on a day of thick, clannish snow,
ice in close chambers,
the melting days of late winter just around the corner.
It was a day of treacherous footing,
the anxiety of spring not yet present.
My diary read “frost, sun, still, gray, ”
and I went for a walk in the woods, stumbling
through the snow, nearly tripping
over a fallen tree, only to see, there,
in a felt of matted leaves,
a small blossom, trembling.
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