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Buried Dreams

The sun carves its bloody line,
chases shadows while hope
huddles in the brown grass.

Expectations rise to the stars,
to imagined worlds filled
with the mind's reconstruction
of quotidian events,
with childhood desires for a life
invented without evidence.

As a new sky presses dreams
into the brown patient grass,
I sweeten my black coffee and stir
the bitter taste into oblivion.

I wonder how this day will unfold, how
the grass will support my heavy foot.
Perhaps that hope, those dreams
will cling to my plodding shoe.

12

Another Winter

Three days of January snow confirms
the sun's calculation that now it's time
to accept cold and the sleeping earth's silence,
time to be still and let the buried sunlight
work its patient mystery. Black squirrels
bounce along the top of our wooden fence,
push aside the fluffy snow, then scramble
nimbly down the small green pine, jounce across
trivial snow drifts and eagerly search our porch
for the cache of summer sunflower seeds.
Later, small birds flutter down, hop and bob
in the rubble and search for fallen bits.

The squirrels and birds pull me back to now,
to the meagre sun glinting on snow,
to the reflection in my patio door
where old summers sigh and sleep in silence.

13