Monday, January 14


The mountains shrouded
With swaths of wispy clouds
Sweetly white where they cling
Like babes to their mother’s breast
And snow falls fast, feather upon feather
Blotting out the brown and gloom of winter
Promising ice-kissed spring not far behind.

The slopes of old regrets
Go sweeping down
Fast, fast upon the mountainside
Until the depths are reached
Darkness and despair in the canyons
And everywhere shadows
And everywhere paths pointing north

At the precipice
An empty hour
Bird calls and swooning wind
A thousand syllables of lost love
Buried in the scent of pine and moss
Growing things asleep in beds
New tomorrows under foot.

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