A winter afternoon spent trying this word and that word and erasing them both, until the room I am in is given to darkness — even death agrees — if not with the method, then at least with the progress.
Given
Suddenly a ripe plum
and how her sweet flesh aches in the mouth
in memory of melted snow
running down
a country
road
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Death, Diaries, Journals, Love, Memory, Plums, Poems, Poetry, Snow, Winter, Writing
William Michaelian 