Friday, March 08, 2019


Now the darkness.
How cold it comes,

earlier. Wind.
All things hunkered

down. These short days
are all we get.

The fuse burns low.
The birds gone, most

of them. Winter
is not far off.

What the hopeless
hope for: longer

light, a pagan
fire, a way to

carry on, and
into, and through.

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