Winter sun

Summer is golden
butterscotch, January
skim milk, thin weak pale.

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Morning ritual

Light breaks. I heed the
call to darkness, cup rich black
magic in my hands.

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House near Woodstock

A’s dream–a fairy
cottage in the woods–simply
too good to be real.

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All nighter

Weighing sleep against
productivity, I write
into a new day.

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