Poem for November 23, 2020

Once I wrote about the rain—
A November night when rain was past
& I was very young or less than half
The age I then became

In those days I had to find pain or invent it
I knew a little but I was safe
From the long pain
The winnowing & worrying & whittling pain
Cutting every last moment
Down to splintered ice

I was young in that November
& thought nothing real of rain or night

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