Tonight, by Julia Hones

I think of the deer fleeing the weapons of man,
of the snow that has not fallen yet,
of the Arctic glaciers melting into the ocean
like untold stories.

The days of November play riddles with the mind.
The touch of a memory cuddles the stillborn child
in a lonely place,
a refuge
where we bind fire and ice.

 

-Read more of Julia’s works here.

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