Late December

Wonderful thoughts from poetry with a small p.

Writing from poetry with a small p.

The first crack
of an open door reveals
a low lying sun
to bathe in.
I am glowing,
golden, glorious.
The winter ground snaps
underneath my heel.
Soft soil gives way,
clinging to my boots.
The dog turns about himself,
dancing with new found youth.
Truth, clear and fresh,
like freezing breath,
surrounds me.
Late December and
I have put away
the year gone by.
All those gain,
loss and life lines
are cut, trimmed,
pulled tight and hitched.
New ropes to anchor
new beginnings
to solid ground.

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