Saturday, March 2, 2013

The Broken Spears

...of bitterbrush,
and sleeping sage
receive much more
than icy silver.
When the clouds and sky
resolve their flying issues,
rusty shadows
of shabby paint,
or a drab olive coating,
barely there,
wishing for more color,
politely, as gifts
of the sun's humors
should, they murmur
a low song of gratitude,
tough humility.

Don't lie to me, my darling;
stay close.
This is our winter, yet
hold out hope of fine days.
These gnarled branches
are full of poems

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