an early rain has swept through and i’m sandwiched in miracle on every side.
above: a woolen sky sponging light all silvery-clean, and the sugar maples turning pink in the ears.
beneath: streets rinsed dark and freckled gold with confetti leaflets from locust trees.
and beside: a small boy with his hand perched in mine like a starling, and how sometimes he cups the heart of his palm to grasp mine back.
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please stop by em's space for more imperfect prose.
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