On a bench in the garden
The birds trace
a silver line around
my existential dread
And the past returns
kaleidoscopically:
fragments of chaos
revolving inside my head
My paperweight heart
counts each one and
pins them down
like a diary note
On a bench in the garden
I wished the sun
could melt trauma
like it melt the snow
Catherine Lucy Rowland 
You are very open about your pain, and courageous.
I’ve enjoyed the aspects of your poem that are opposites, indicating to me, there’s every chance of the sun melting trauma.
Thank you.
Thank you Stu, I appreciate it!