was it concrete or the trowel
that smoothed it down or
the hand that held the trowel
some years ago and
i couldn’t tell what i saw
except one small piece of it
like a dead sparrow broke away
and thumped into the snowbank
it seemed a trivial thing the driveway
the gap the bowl of it lined with pebbles
a minor repair come springtime
but as i sit here warming my hands
with a cup of cocoa laced with red chiles
i found another hole in my chest
someplace someone used to be — though
I can’t remember most of their names
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Very moving, and I love the cold imagery of the snowbanks and then the contrast to warmth near the end as the narrator recollects. It ends on a seemingly solemn note, but it’s powerful and evocatively haunting. Amazing work yet again. 👏👏
Thanks, Lucy. I appreciate your kindness.
D
lovely quiet and contemplative piece, very Brock: import of the broad via the little things.
Peter T
Thanks, Peter.
D