“…any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde…”
John Donne
The blank page beckons like the first cut with the scalpel—
tremulous, uncertain, unknown.
How does one eulogize the unknown?
The peach pink clouds lying across the day’s new blue
are the clothes we washed together last night—
one load, button downs and my green dress.
They smell like that lemony detergent
Two years ago I sat on a bare window seat at an inn in Pittsburgh. The air was
dry, the day light, as sun reflected off deep, deep snow outside. On this
morning,
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