Sunday, February 14, 2010

Poem

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.

1 comment:

Cliff said...

"Feeds the stillness". I really like that.