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Outside, the snow collapses
on itself, water finding water that way it has of shifting shape and staying the same. The river roars its full-throated runoff, wicking away what falls. The arc of light slants higher across our hills, days longer by seconds. Still, it’s winter. In this quiet expanse of white lit life, we fall into our own slant of time. Bones resting on bones that spark in bright arcs of pain. You paint. I write. Fire pops in the grate its long held breath of rain. Water moving everywhere, compelled to start again.
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Enjoy these poems and short essays on nature and awakened life.Archives
January 2019
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