Late snow on branches, cold bright sun,
saying names aloud of those not seen
for too many years, so loudly that
some snow slides off the evergreen needles,
melting into the Earth and into memory

The photo I use here reminds me of the first two lines of Emily Dickinson’s poem.

There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons —

That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes


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