#23 of Poetry c.2019
A very small poem about a very small place.
Ruby, Arizona
Canter on the cusp of freezing mornings,
while on the distant mountain stormings,
I see upon the ridge a brand new day,
without God's own explicit say.
I can feel the warmth of it on my face,
even when it's left without a trace;
Can I count myself among tomorrow,
as the sun with all its sorrow?
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