Tuesday, August 28, 2007


I wake far too early, blankets kicked aside,
Cold but not cold enough
My hand on a stack of clothes:
Blue soaks into my hand, denim
Smooth leather yields, tender,
To a fine cotton almost silk soft

I open my eyes

Silverspun blur of dark and dappled leaves
The dry speaks the sky’s clearness
The moon at a third, small, away
Will only farther as the night draws on
Yet from distant leagues, all,
All is frosted in growing light

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