November 25

comments 7
poetry

Cold coming over
the pass, cold rain,

the steep drop,
the silent lake,

couldn’t see
a thing.

And the lights
of those first

few towns, so warm
at a distance–

another arrival,
and what then?

A stone,
no other word.

Unmoved
and unmovable,

aloof. Knit a nest
for it, feather

the den, dust off
the snow–

or don’t.

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7 Comments

  1. This poem made me remember driving through Northern Ontario in a snow storm. We couldn’t see the road or the edge of the highway. We drove along cliff edges only having the barrier as reference where the road was. It was terrifying…
    Anyways, beautiful poem and I loved the emotion.

    Like

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