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,
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,
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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