Alone in my small warm place,

Windsong to feed the silence,

Hours slip past uncounted

December light herds swift

A multitude of cloudshadow

Across the mountain’s face,

At length, the downing sun,

Tangles in the naked trees,

Doused and drowned in nightrise,

Falls away toward another dawn

Behind some other mountain,

Last, the measure of this day

Is numbered by bound pages

Scarred with shreds and shards

Of story, tale out of order

But complete for finding out.

Too tired now to sort a plot,

I give these to the holy dark

And trust my soul to sleep

To hold my threads intact

Across one more frozen night

And weave me into morning.


Henry's books.




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