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I’m turning twenty-five
and cleaning out my closet,
pulling clothes off
the shelves
where they’ve sat unworn and
squeezed together.
 
I’m turning twenty-five
and sweeping dust
from cracks and crevices,
pulling furniture away from the wall
and reaching the broom,
with its indiscriminate bristles,
in to the creases where floor meets wall
to uncover even those
unseen places.
 
I’m turning twenty-five
on Friday
and I’m noticing the warmth of the sun
moving from winter into spring,
pulling me out into the air
where crows laugh in the morning
and maple trees cry sap
and ice begins to move
almost imperceptibly,
heating so slowly,
slowly
until it happens—
the drop!
and water falls to the ground
catching sunlight
for a second
before seeping again into
the deep, dark earth
where it first began.