When the East pours
such fire
onto mountains, still cold,
and vast, and violet
from having lain under
the stars,
one stops all errant
and clambers higher and higher
until one is as drenched as the tiniest of flowers
and still one looks on
in exquisite wonder.
And though I know very well my own
and though I know the wild irreverence
of the thought,
I cannot help but think,
whatever made that sky, and that sun,
and that mad dash of snowdrops across the field,
made me, too.
And I think, isn’t there a wild hope in that thought?
Isn’t there a kind of – re-birth?

2 thoughts on “Audacious.

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