Sunday, December 16, 2007
EMPTY PALM
Toss your arms toward winter, when summer
is the barren ground. Your loved ones become icons; senseless saints and vibrant clowns.
The hand that reaches is the hand that creates, is the one that refuses, turning all beauty to waste.
My prayer is the slim leaf that falls openwhen no one else is around.
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LONG PLAYING The just-past-full moon parsed and dissected by black tree branches and a screen window open to a taut Spring chill on t...