Sunday, April 7, 2013

Huddling Pigeons on Warming Tile Roof

Eight, dun grass in mauve setting light,
The trees that exhale by dropping leaves
Having held their breath all summer
Relaxing in the worst of wurthering winds,
Finding a pilgrim's fire in the deepest mountain winter,
A stream whose trickle continues months past rain,

Whispers that the end of life isn’t just being riven
Into cavernous silence, but climbing into a cozy bed—
Dreams that manifest when all things stretch
For spring rays beyond the solstice, bounding in ecstasy,
A  limning of verdure again.

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