another end

In my past life I was an old woman.
I wore my skin like a rare linen. Human
cloth, not sewn but grown. My hair
frayed gray. And in my face, like a map
folded and folded over, I traced
every year I'd lived in the ground.

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maybe today this poem finds no audience, no resonance. it will be written off as quickly and quietly as it was written.

I will see god in every particle of snow that falls and melts in my open hand.