Birthing of the Sun

a sun mid-day, dawning between

two parted snow clouds.

A gold vein sliding through the landscape

weaving of a fine silk thread in damask curtains




That the river water would heed

my touch to the surface push out


the months are like days

I read Peter Cole, Jerusalem

he walks and I think of travel

seven years on remembering one thing.


Will it be the same freedom

asserting itself

when I visit the same place

a decade later?


The calm water flowing the

wrong direction.


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