The Art of Prose and Poetry
On Sunday,before Mum’s cancer was confirmedwinter yawned a warm shiverand wee white buds—still with a boreal bite—popped from dark-bark spindles, yet to leaf,phosphorescent against blue-black hueslike earth stars discarded from the sky. I nipped outside and snipped thebaby branches from the main trunk,rehoming them indoors, redressingthe air with decaying base notes,topped with a…
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