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Sometimes, the light in the morning
up over the newly snowed peaks breaks open my heart, like a window hit by a hammer, or an overripe apricot. It’s a heady mixture, that, glass shards and sweet juice running all through my veins. You’d think it would cut. Instead, it flows like a molten river of lava, shimmering through my skin. Yesterday, I stood naked in the yard steaming from the hot tub watching the moon tip its dark side into the empty branches, a sliver of glimmer, like a fingernail left to the voodoo of sky. Beckon what lingers, unspoken, unformed, and let its newness unfold in you cool and comfortable as a hand on a fevered brow. When it comes, nothing else will matter.
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Enjoy these poems and short essays on nature and awakened life.Archives
August 2019
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