In Spite of Loss

The year spins its clay again

toward the potter's hand,

in spite of being conquered

and losing face and stance. The months crack wide open

in the cold of the past

but they are smoothed, reshaped,

reglazed, and recast.

The days approach in silence hung

with new leaves, fresh moss.

The year turns to spring again

in spite of fall and loss.

But there's no trace of you here,

no echo of your steps,

no place, once you have erased

your old return address.

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