The maples in blossom, leafing out, swallowing the wasp nests I've tracked all winter. Soon I
won't remember what I'm looking for.

Flowering quince stops me in my tracks.

The idiom is "dead in my tracks," but I'm trying to stop talking about death, even if it's just a
metaphor. Especially if it's a metaphor.

I keep missing the last patches of sunlight. I see it somewhere in the distance, hitting the street,
but I cannot make it fall on me.

Things were going horribly. When they got better, I began to fully inhabit my body.

I do so much breathing in and breathing out.

The trains in their insistence, even this far from the tracks.

Sometimes I feel so much urgency inside my chest, like breathing can't possibly be enough.

Kathryn Smith published Self-Portrait with Cephalopod, in 2021. kathrynsmithpoetry.com

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