That Cathartic Something

It may sound best as you attempt
to melt the snow of relentless February with
the salt of all those woefully bucketing tears,
but, with sight through the kitchen window,
when delusional warmth of the harvest moon
is cut from cold and the unhindered possessions
of children, emotional lies, so carefully
realized, shorten back to the landscape
upon a sauntering mauve edged with silver.

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