Of Dreams in Winter

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The dead of winter

foretells of dust in wind.

The crystal in the air

surrendered by the milky veil

lit up easy from the far side of the mountain,

settling on my porch,

dry as desert silt so

push-brooms do the job of shovels.

So cold

I worry for willows

and beaver beneath the frozen pond

and question how

the seed of

thistle lie dormant

for one hundred years before

rising fierce as vengeful Comanches on

the ridgeline.

This deathfulness

is strong as days are short,

and cause more frequent the

moments I wonder if a

season such as this

will someday lay its

claim on me. Let this

sleep and sloth

do their dark work

while my spirit lays rounded,

a bear in a cave,

lost to itself in

lucid dreams of

liquid and fragrance

and color.

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