Dec 2010
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.
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.
