COLD HANDS

A seclusion moon splits between clouds,

sheading onto flat fields, fence posts

and tombstones. A feather soft wind song

plays the leaves. Birds cease their inflight

bickering. Stars reflect around the edges

of sleeping lily pads. A prevailing mist

covers everything like gauze, draping over

stonewalls and stiff brush topped ferns.

The echo of an owl breeches the air, like

thunder without warning; it pulls at the roots

of courage. I am a beggar to return home

where a fireplace waits for my cold hands.

Night dismisses fear without challenge.

Standing alone, it conquers the land.

 

 

 

 

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