We start from a dark place before we are born,
reach for the ambiguous lightness
as if we could see through the window
into lighter places,
through a cloudy film.
It’s always there in winter, for some.
A tiny glass basket pulls me back to
childhood: its’ candy colors, stacks of rings
like playground sing-songs
memories carried as a burden or
carried in starts and stops
like drops of water
or shards of crystal glass.
I drink it up.
— Maureen Shaughnessy