It is here, The skies shouted
To no one in particular
While the clouds shed their tears
To white powder, floating, drifting
Where even our epiphanies are clouded
Mother draws her blanket
Covers her head and slumbers
A new day awakens unseen
Sun and moon will mark the time
While she dreams of her garden
Her morning bright in the distance
Far beyond low winter sun
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Clouded epiphanies? Mother slumbers on and dreams of her gardens?
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Once more my stilted attempt at poetry. It comes to me at times. Perhaps it did not properly fit in the context, but I liked the instrument of a clouded epiphany. Epiphanies are revelations, moments of clarity. With so much doubt to haunt us even these come as the wheat amid the tares….lost, clouded, uncertain. Like dawn in winter. It is light for a day in a season where we find ourselves so wnting for light. An idea better expressed in a poetic form
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