Saturday, December 3, 2022

The tumblers are turning

 

The tumblers are turning.

I can feel it in my belly.

The dawn is breaking

Over the pine tops.

The pure wall of night

Has slowly lifted.

The old combination

Is clicking right into

Morning’s perfect space.

Not to be caught,

The night animals scurry.

The copperhead slips

Through the granite crack

Back to the ball of vipers.

The tumblers are locked.

The day is in us again.

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