Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
In subzero cold, one must
keep moving or die.
It's tempting to surrender
to drifts of bleak thought.
Bless the irritating sting!
Love hurts like numb fingers
returning to life.
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