Behold: love cradled in ice.
Moon hidden, an afterglow
on snow. A traveler in these fields
could miss it. Space tolls its
bell. He goes outside to look.
He is absence. He is the world.
All the crows have gathered
on trees at the jail. What
do they find there? The children
sleep in their beds. Behold:
all the voices find their throats.
John – I posted this last year and am trying to post it again.
Thanks, Tim. Merry Christmas.