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Literature Text
Even though
it's all fleeting
as bird tracks
in the snow
I weave a coat
warm and golden
of these small,
luminous thoughts.
it's all fleeting
as bird tracks
in the snow
I weave a coat
warm and golden
of these small,
luminous thoughts.
Literature
In March
Gray clouds on brightest blue
Slowly go thudding by.
So they buried Old Man Winter.
I say that he did not die.
The boring sun cannot blot out
The crimped dread from land and sky,
Tensing for a reckoning.
I'll burn again, by and by.
The bare trees stand straight, sky-pulled,
Against the wet and melting snow.
What has all winter clung to branch
And trunk, that makes all outlines glow?
It is not time for April rains
To lull the thing that clings to bed.
The God is on the land again,
And is singing in my head.
Literature
Leaves Fall, We are Dreaming
November lingers on the skin
cold-fingered, longing,
dreaming by the crackled hearth
of birdsong in May.
Literature
Outlying
This world is a marble you roll
with distanced expression, a window
you gaze upon with a home-sickness I cannot predict -
almost as if you will creep out the frames like ivy,
oozing like puss infections the color of something alive;
maybe hang and fall headfirst like a Monday morning,
a jarring collision with the morning traffic, today's intersection hold;
jump headfirst as if elbows could be the right bones
for making wings, Icarus forgotten.
insomnia attic, a secret skipped like stones
across the face of a pond, a reflection marred by ripples -
something just inspires: you always were a daydream.
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Excellent work!