Born from this sorrow, fury climbs her spine
and the sterile twigs of barren tree branches scrape
the winter windows of her home abundant
with noise where the children number
four, even so she is alone changing
teaspoons of sand into stars.

In her eyes the sun shines stubborn casting
shadows of an absent smile, the bronchitis
cough that persists, pulls at her skirts as she works
and works. Born from this sorrow
a compression explosion, broken glass
and breakfast is served.

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