Monday, January 7, 2013


The world is bitter
skinned raw
with frost,
grass leaves bent
with weight
of ice,
Trees shivering,
numb in wintry gusts.
High on Picacho Peak,
a disc
of burning radiance
Rises high,
Breaks forth into the sky.
A swelling,
a rising,
of heat,
of light,
of life.

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