where it hurts

It is nothing more

than that I miss

the correspondence.

It is a special thing,

to be reduced to tears.

It is May,

up with the sun in my eye,

a routine begun but to pause –

-Chopin, Ballade No. 1-

Out back beyond the fence

there is still frost on the grass.

The thin glass between us.

Only the bees still seek communion.

One by one I release them.

Be grateful.

You must be grateful.

Be grateful that you still can feel.