The remnant of a winter sun
lingered like memory,
burdening the sky with light.

I squint at the thought of
what might have been,
but I depend on what is.

A tangent of ice like marble
pointed to another world,
long ago, in a difficult age.

I check the ewe, just lambed,
in the shed that will fall
in the windstorm this spring.

The sun rose and set
but its rising and setting
shed no light.

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