I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.

Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.

Today life opened inside me like an egg.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.