Winter compounds the cold. Stars in the dark
Make small bright histories, do fleeting work.
The wakeful intuitions of a monk
In dead December's landscape, bitter blank ---
Sparrows like scraps of brown and tattered life
Recall the days of blossom and green leaf.
Dreams strew the mental floor with lovely trash,
Entice the sleeper's transitory wish.
Gently, we nudge our slumbrous words. They start.
They won't be bullied into making art.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2017-12-31 at 10:31
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