Wednesday, September 30, 2009


Remember that day
When your face took in the sun?
The winds howled snow
On the ice sheet had their run
What was mortality then?
Whence the pale horse?
On the plains of those middle years
Distant trumpets had no force
Sure we watched others
Close yet almost lost
Far from our position
Their souls already touching frost
How could we not but reach
Towards what they must have felt?
And yet utterly fumble fingers
That still caused frost to melt
Did your heart feel the ghost
Of future self, free of distance?
Mine has from the first
Yet frostbite holds this instance.

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