Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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Sun 1

What brings you to your knees sun
on mornings when you flee the other world
and mask yourself with cloud
flattening the day’s light into scrim
I feel certain of your grief
and lie resigned to graying tears
running down a window cheek
the house dogs take dimness
as a time to sleep
so there is that


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Mountain top

Stars begin to drop into
the growing dark of a clear night sky
as I come down the mountain
to our woods, the path familiar
my feet sure in waning light
I went up alone craving you
the burn cleared granite
comfort warm at sunset, words
escaping into the rising drafts
as song, wait for me
I will be there given time