A poem for a sleepy cold Sunday.
IN
Mid-air collisions,
an angry frozen swarm
deceives the hopeful.
The sky is all violence,
beckoning me to take part
in the battle for direction.
It's not a longing for warmth
that keeps me shrouded in flannel,
but a reckoning with quiet mind
and settled soul which feeds
the stillness.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
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1 comment:
"Feeds the stillness". I really like that.
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