By Mary McKSchmidt
In the middle of another night, awake
listening to the endless chimes
of the grandfather clock announcing
from the living room downstairs
that another fifteen minutes of sleep are
forever gone, consumed by a mind that refuses
peace, that insists on reliving every
mistake, that worries incessantly
about tomorrows; in that abyss of despair,
I hear a brush against the window
pull back the covers
to face winter’s chill
and discover ice crystals
clinging to every branch
in the forest as if
the angels
are inviting me
to play.
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