The cold crouches.
Perched, ankles numb,
I quake with joy—
thorny with cold, slow
but hopeful.
On white horizon,
fire licks sky.
It comes
like comets, like horsemen.
I knew it would.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 7:00 AM UTC
The cold crouches.
Perched, ankles numb,
I quake with joy—
thorny with cold, slow
but hopeful.
On white horizon,
fire licks sky.
It comes
like comets, like horsemen.
I knew it would.
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