By Audre Lorde

For the days when the coffee grounds refuse to settle

and the last toothpick rolls into a crack on the floor

and all the telephone messages are from enemies

or for other people only

and the good old days


between pages of books

we have already written

for the acorn of fear in each April

will this be the year

earth refuses

to forgive us with a blush of green

for the weary assumptions

of next winter’s chill

and for silent days inbetween

your face

mingled in tulips

after brief rain.

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