Blind comets

All those Springs
before
and some yet to come
On tiptoe at the
cill
of this Winter

Rolling over the
hard
solstice
stone
uncovers nothing save the
yet ungathered nuts
heeled, unseen, into soft soil
that should not be so

 

Disparate clouds finding purpose, forming
slate scrum and
dulling the bright moon to an
echo

Letting comets pass by
blind
in their haste to know everything

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