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.