Up from a life of lit candles falling
through a storm of snow, a voice
came singing: Given one small joy,
the occasional strand of unexpected
though smaller others
why not some
gratitude, some sparrows shifting, now
this set of not so delicate as they had
seemed at first set of branches,

and now — now this one… How long
I’d been falling, snow-like, across a life
not my own.
Then just the dark and,
inside the dark, the one candle, its light
guttering like gratitude, or song just before
it swells again, lifting, little storm of sparrows.

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