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In these short days of winter, it’s easy to think,

oh, so this is what they mean when they say

that no matter how dark it gets, the sun always rises,

as it did today, despite chill, despite grief, despite

tears.  And the cheekbones again are sun-drawn and

tawnier, the lips poise themselves for praise.

Of course we try to divert the dark flood, find

another bank where the pitch might eddy or skip

our lives entirely. But it doesn’t. It finds us and

slips its cold shadows into our breath so that every now

is laced with some lack of luminousness. And now is also twined

with slow strands of light. Why long for this or that when it is always

the two of them together, the old and new, repulsion and lust,

barrenness and fecundity. The sunrise is no miracle. It’s a fact,

though if we choose to thank it, it shines more brightly.

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