Friday, November 17, 2006

Winter Sun


A cold sharp light
Cuts up the gray sky
Until it bleeds blue.

The birds get confused.
Their loud chattering
Sounds like panic.

On the wet grass
A shadow settles in
Like a dazed snake.

So much light
Makes me squint
Through my depression.

My mood craves gray,
Not this damn
Blue blood.

Charles Deemer

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