Winter Solstice

I lay in bed not thinking until
I thought of your breath rising slow
Between me and the hill silhouetted
Against the lemony western sky

Towards the last thin peel of moon
Curling away into the night.
Below us, skin of ice growing heavy,
The December river creaked and groaned.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, John MacKenzie Poetry, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, The Moon, Winter. Bookmark the permalink.

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