This inert drama—
gentle
winds freeze
you in place, warm
on the tender petals
of your eyelids, closed,
face tilted toward the sun.
Still, from within,
ancestors urge you now
to run
from that resentment
while it sleeps.
Smart, wiry dogs
rush to their owners,
joy crackling underfoot
like ice in April.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Photo: ulleo/Pixabayu
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