morning     

You can shake your bag of bones at me, Mr. Jack Frost, and you can cloud my windows with your fingerprints, but I have something you will never have. My body is full of hot veins, branches and webs of blood, and in this way, I am a mirror to the bare-armed maple and the naked ash, and I too am robed in the opulent gold of the winter sun.

[ home | poetry | prose | journals | misc | about | contact ]