Meadow

December 16, 2017

You are little gold fish flickering in clear water,
the stiff bristles of a horse-hair brush,
and her eyes when they crinkle at the corners.

You are the bald pink tail of a white rat,
the slight pinch of an injected needle,
and the one time my dad made bread.

You are not the wild bull’s wet nose,
Grandfather’s best suit jacket,
or a mouthful of small marbles.

However, you could still be the stab of a knife into wood,
The shock of dipping a toe into a frozen lake,
Or dancing under the sun in winter when it burns grey.






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