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I am sitting on my front porch, waiting for a train
Street light coppers, like some false sunrise, reach their day-fearing fingers towards me
Like hands splayed on snow
And I wonder if light can be cold
The sounds of the wind and the rush of distant cars are deceptive
So like an engine, my breath so like its steam
A train I can't chase, secret in all of its components
When I first came outside, the sky was darker than I had ever known
The stars lost in its folds and no moon
But day is nearing and the trees are not giants or gods, but oak and birch
With names and form
These broken places in my hands are marks of my past and present life
This image of a ragged and strong New England marked six months like the skin of the old

I would will that street lamp out with my mind
Sends its fingers retreating across piano key snow and the tree line- rudimentary sharps and flats
For something, a lightening of the sky, a stir from behind the upstairs window
Tells me that my short vigil is ending, day is nearly here
A distortion of the horizon, color leaking into the indigo.
I will wait to capture it, a hunter with a pen
For you cannot write a sunrise without pages painted in rose
02.10.10
:iconelwenaldalinde:
ElwenAldalinde Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2010
"A hunter with a pen" :) I like that! Makes me feel more "rawr!" when I write XD
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February 10, 2010
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