It was not a May-time explosion of dandelion petals,
hummingbird kisses,
a beginning and an end.
It was the taste of ginger on the tongue,
lovely and true,
burning away November wind,
a thesis statement
proving what could have lain dormant all winter:
black water beneath thick ice.
Scalding and brief,
a sudden branch through spinning spokes,
an embrace like
falling into bed.
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