In Waiting on the Winter Wind

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To speak love

into this world

is to give

one’s self

to a certain silence.

Like there, against the cold blue,

in the scattered aerial

constellations of blackbirds

is that which beckons one

to whisper, blow through me

as well, winter wind, for I am

in you. As you move, I move.

After such, what might be said

is bound to be wise,

and perhaps,

for the ages.

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3 thoughts on “In Waiting on the Winter Wind

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