There is a Stir, Always
       

If I hold onto this body the snow will grow inside me
and the winter of my cells will flake
into tiny crystals like six-figured gods,
each arrow tip attempting to make the point of something
as tears flow.

There is a stir, always.

I rise to the cold
to take my place among the fragile stars,
and sleep.

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Copyright © 2014 Catherine Graham All rights reserved
from Her Red Hair Rises with the Wings of Insects
Wolsak and Wynn
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission