Sunday, December 27, 2009


The sun—warm and golden
New leaves—tender on greening branches

And I said I wouldn’t complain

The cold winter in my bones ached
The coming of darkness every evening closed my heart
Then—endless rain, and more cold

I used to wonder what purpose my life served
How vain and small such musings seem to me

As I move more slowly now—even in the warmth
I wonder less often
As I become the dullness of winter—the fullness of summer

Two things keep me from sadness:

The small pink, perfect cherry blossoms
Each year they appear—Fragrant and pure


The sun’s arc moving toward the mid-summer sky

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