Naya Blue lives and writes in the mountains of Western Maine. more »
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In one window shadows fell from the pines
dark against the sky as moon light whispered around their old shoulders.
Winter’s breath fades in the last days of cold February
day light blooms earlier and night’s deep grip softens.
After Valentine’s day, you said your mother’s cancer had
exploded like a sack of flour all over her stomach.
Or the doctor had said it like that, dark black flour dusting,
the snow tonight draped in sooty shawls around the trees.
Each moon darkness grows shorter as spring comes on
time changing in each breath, hasten no season...