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Wind Chill

The role of Stone is that of Ice
But seeks a slower sun.
To Synapse, stealth Invisible,
Concision to the Bone.
The praying hands of branches bared
By Wind, this season’s Star,
Implore — insensate, arrogant —
As snowflakes formed in Fire.
Above our church a fist of smoke
Diminishes all Blooms
Within that Park where Prayers revolve
On a Carousel of tombs.

Comments on this entry are closed.

  • Bill Jones December 17, 2017, 9:07 PM

    This really is rather good, excellent.
    Please do more.

  • Missy December 18, 2017, 4:35 AM

    I like the hymn meter here. Reminds me of Emily Dickinson.

  • Howard Nelson December 18, 2017, 6:14 PM

    Those prayers weave for you a garment,
    as the Carousel serves as loom round and round on this silent ground.
    All aboard! All aboard! It’s your final call.
    Your shroud’s well woven, your ticket’s punched.
    All aboard!

  • Kevin Dickson December 11, 2019, 7:42 AM

    Beautiful words

  • Gnawbone Jack December 9, 2020, 4:21 AM

    This fits my mood like a glove and the times as well. A verse should free you from the page and set your mind/spirit free to roam. Thank you.

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