Tide to Rest

In the morning feel the hard frost

Bend brokenness, add ache

To stiff bone and disfigured skin–

The ice in the pail has frozen

In jagged and jumblesome shards.

Note nothing has altered.

The broom leans the same way,

Dust crowds as before, grimy pots

Lend shelter to stiff-legged spiders

Smoke is the memory of fires past.

The ice is melting from rusted eaves

Where it– the frost– rests at a stretch

And cradles the earth in her low hours

When she hovers on tired axis, tilts in a dream

Stretches and unwinds to another day.

© E. Richardson


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