What Appears

Who am I- what appears
in the window, my arm reaching
for a rose, my heart beating
even in the dark when ears
are closed? In winter, I am

field smothered by snow,
beautiful ridge of ice where
a purple-black crow counts
his feathers row by row,
the falling darkness a film,

a black blanket, a ghost.

Every star a childhood wish
or desperate prayer, sleeping in
their frozen cradles; if I could
hold just one against my breast
I would know: where I came from.

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