Spring Cold

Life blows blurry bleary and a fog, ripped dripping fliffing on a hot cup tea held, coughing in my words and sniffling scratchy in my throat like blanket wrapped all ‘round shoulders as, clearing throat, shiver in the summer weather. – I hate colds. – – – Photo by Lisa Hobbs on Unsplash

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Wait for the Morning

He always rises like the sun after night— after the hours, played like years, the coldness, hurting and hardening, the darkness, stealing the light like dementia. Do not let the fiercest night take you for God will rise to blaze above the frosted hills and scatter magic across the diamond grass.

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