Monday, June 14, 2010

The Year the Fimbulwinter Didn't Happen


Things go slower now
the sound of plaintive guitars
sun mixes with rain

The warmth that threatened
stalled summer hiding beyond
the lip of the world

Now wet to the skin
from here the salt sweat is born
into morning's chill

Here's the way forward
through the valley's keen anguish
emerging cleansed, new

From the killing floor
I have returned spent, different
lost in my own skin

Dust and lassitude
thundering, trackless vistas
circular searching

Like dogs, we have howled
aching for the light of day
now half blinded, mute

All my troubles now
are candles before the sun
snakes without their fangs

Beneath a tree--rest
as Spring turns to Summer, choose
any path will do

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This is special. It certainly shares a number of strong feelings, and I can clearly understand where you are coming from. M

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