The sun cleans my hair,
golden fingers caressing
my scalp like liquid.
The raven calls out,
a beggar looking for bread.
He eats noisily.
Snow falls, sweet on trees
like a silky white blanket
covering giants.
Rocks have hard faces
looking out on the soft world
weary from long years.
The mountains are wrapped,
swaddled in billowing mist
like creation’s edge.
I imagine God
on the edge of creation,
the black light to him.
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