Because the clouds fled

—

and did not cover the sun’s retreat

the night grew cold

this morning, I wait for the sun to return

and warm the trees

and the trees to warm the air

so I may stand alone facing the water

my back to the day

and count the name of God upon finger bones

without gloves to hinder my touch

or interpose the comfort of cloth

between myself and a world in travail

2-17-25

(an unfinished poem…)

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