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Thursday, April 2, 2015

National Poetry Month

Poem for the day.

Rare Season

When the earth pauses
to take a sip of cool air
before turning down the
light and rolling over to sleep

anything can happen
in that moment
a sigh can last forever

the grass is damp and green
insects and frogs are singing
their evening chorus
preparing to tuck
themselves in to nooks and shadows

the lowering sun reaches out
a last finger to touch the clouds
as I touch you

red and green fades
to silver
with the moon caught
in iron branches
tomorrow will dawn
wet and forlorn or
blazing with promise

There is no way to predict
which way the wind will blow

Jan Ross

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