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Friday, January 7, 2011


Out my back door,
a sheet of icy slate
mantles the sleeping field,
beams slice through
peach and mango
hues, slight hip of
white cloud,
deep scratch of
blue across
bare back,
explosions of
splintered thoughts,
stripped branches
question the
endless sky.
My paintbrush--
the traveler of
intrinsic skill.

1 comment:

Thank you for taking a moment to leave me your word of wisdom.