Written by Jon Summers
The ground lies fallow.
It knows it is the
time to rest, that the
air is sharp, cutting,
that we thirst, and
dream, too, lie
desolate, content
with the unchanging
season. The dreams,
are they of rest and
dark nights, parched
limbs, too, that
scratch the sky?
Whatever, the
waking is still to
the sharp frost of
a morning that
threatens the rest
we keep.
Text © Jon Summers
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