Enero, 10

In the touch of morning, fog
rolls across our shuffling feet,
but we are too close to see
such things, and though we begin
by staring into the dark woods,
which light themselves, we can’t know
what’s sneaking around our feet,
behind our eyes, when cobwebs
we swatted down just last night
sew back to miracle life.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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