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IN WINTER LIGHT / Arthur Smith For months I was living only to be worried with you, and each evening as I waited just outside your dreams, I thought over and over again, Nothing will come of this. This is the good of your life. Now I am alone, finally, facing your grave and the background foothills rising, at dusk, yellow and deep brown, bruised with pines, and I can't figure out how anyone survives. Nothing has come of it, though someone has left a plastic daisy spinning on its stem, as though that could make a kind of sense of the life and death that would undo me. Turning, the petals blur, endlessly white, the rim of a wheel, the center of which also turns, more slowly. In winter light, the light of grief, against the squares of laid lawn, the petals glow. They look as though they could go on for years, or die out with the wind, each wind, or both. 42 ยท The Missouri Review ...


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