Friday, October 28, 2016

it is still early

it is still early
the lights
have only had time
to grow brighter

we should not be inured, cannot
wonder without
stepping into untested

taste, and see
spread wide and crash
your craving on this
cold, hard, weathered stone

between breath this
tree where life
is punctuated, pierced

by sounds of zinging angels
violin, and cello
behind, around
the highway drone

this embrace
that smells of evening, wood
and safety

past the slow walk home
the slender chill
the pleiades
dissolved like salt on the tongue

baptism and eucharist daily appear
dew and flakes of flesh
left frost-like in the darkness, in the grass
every morning.

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