Hands test my face. It’s nervous grooming,
finding little hairs on the chin which sprout
every other day like crocus into some bad,
unknown springtime.

Nightied and barefoot in the inner world,
I play piano inside the worry line,
cabbage vein temple pop.

I need a walk from town to woods,
away from the wooden table with its
bruised fruit, hardened bread crumbs
and hanging herbs. The apple
in my loose pocket makes
me a rich woman.

Freedom’s as cold as a spring dip,
the early cherry, the forsythia.

Kathy Ireland Smith


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