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“And then there is the spring park, damp as if freshly peeled, sweet greenhouse, green cemetery with no dead in it—except, in some shaded woods, under some years of leaves and rotted cones, the body of a warbler like a whole note fallen from the sky—my old love for him, like a songbird's rib cage picked clean.” — Sharon Olds
And then there is the spring park,
damp as if freshly peeled, sweet
greenhouse, green cemetery with no
dead in it—except, in some shaded
woods, under some years of leaves and
rotted cones, the body of a warbler
like a whole note fallen from the sky—my old
love for him, like a songbird's rib cage picked clean.