Life With Horace

poetry & essays

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shadow woods

frost painting echo trees
on woods facing windows
in the coldest
days and nights
of the dark months
the panes must be calling
siren like, their remnant
grains of earth
almost alive once more,
or is it that trees hear
the windows sigh
and send their shadow shapes
to be as one?


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transition from moonlight

awake not by choice
my mind wanders freely
to think about change
as a passage, a progress
seeing light through the window
too early for sunrise
the lamp of the huntress
sends beams without warmth
as the moon sets I rise
glancing out at the shapes
tall pines against sky
emerging from darkness
to frame the new day