Poetry

Embers

By

Poor summer, it doesn't know it's dying.

A few days are all it has. Still, the lake

is with me, its strokes of blue-violet

and the fiery sun replacing loneliness.

I feel like an animal that has found a place.

This is my burrow, my nest, my attempt

to say, I exist. A rose can't shut itself

and be a bud again. It's a malady,

wanting it. On the shore, the moon sprinkles

light over everything, like a campfire,

and in the green-black night, the tall pines

hold their arms out as God held His arms

out to say that He was lonely and that

He was making Himself a man.

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