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
lie
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.
