Almost the End of Winter

A poem by Melissa Carl

and the air is moored and oddly warm.
What do you want to remember?
Rush-hour twilight’s east horizon
Where the full and rising moon
has managed to be pink?
Or the other side of the sky
with clouds dragging
huge caves of storm?
Really, you want a heart
whole enough to hold them both—
both, and the shifting space
of the space between.

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