The wind outside is the wind
That flies over front range foothills.
The chill is the chill
Of Minnesota winter-walks.
The bird chirps
From a northeast maple.

And the sun bleeds in
From somewhere I don’t yet know,
But always feel, either mournfully
Or with excited anticipation.

The here of my morning
Is the everywhere-else of me.
But I am the sad fool because
The everywhere-else is not gone
And I’m letting the here slip away.

 

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