Year

A year is a single white cell
In combat –
bloody, miserable, hurt.
Yet the war has just begun.

A year is a punctuation,
a flick of ink
Barely visible, crucial,
indistinct, indispensable.

A year is twilight,
the corners of shadow,
the shallows of sadness to come
and nothings to experience.

A year is a gray petal
cleaving itself from past and future;
time has lost its meaning.
It flutters aimlessly.

A year is nothing,
does nothing to pain,
goes nowhere from death.
Her weak, bony hands are still in mine.

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