Your forty seventh April
candleless
for we are not religious
in the garden gaudy
branches float
with early bees
the sea breathes
a weight of silver
there is no horizon
in three days the flowers
will fall three times
since your last April
and we will sow a pale petal shawl
to warm your bones as they drag and furl
beneath the ice bright water
Cindy - very rough, and any comments delightedly received!
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