Upcycled Bunnykins necklace by Diane Redden

for Alex

The day you turned eighteen
snow froze to the ground,
a patchwork of chipped
ice and sienna grass.
Ditches gleamed and clouds
cracked to reveal shafts of wan
sun, pouring bitter lemon light.

Your words fell like snow, soft and cold.
They penetrated my skin.
“I won’t be home for my birthday next year,
will I, mom?”

I remember looking through
the bay window, seeing black
branches upon pearled sky
a raft of sparrow shadows and
the weeping mulberry
dripping icy tears

So much pride in you, but always
the burrowing sorrow, too.
I need to know:
what is the particular price
of a truth spent,

when extracted currency
is the viscera of letting go?