The Shortest Day
The morning is still,
all mist and slow moving time
and I see your shape
down the slope, under
the stretched out apple branches
with your hand against
the gnarly old trunk.
They claim you're something special
like an old time sage
and I don't argue
though it's against my nature
to paint such big noise
on any of us.
So chances are God Himself
could appear right here
and I would turn, turn
and say, "No, not you! Who else
have you got on deck?"
Even for the likes of
me, this is Winter's Solstice.
It rains on me too,
and my snuffling dog
whether we are just or not.
It's time for a nap.
December 21, 2013 10:00 AM
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.