The Three Last Poems of Winter


How easy it is to miss a life

Counting and counting my own small pile of days

Like a child hoards pieces of candy

Reluctant to consume one

And have less.



We are, like the winds, born

In the tiniest disturbance of matter

And when we end where do we go?

We go where the winds end

When they die.



Darkest isn’t black but shades of periwinkle and twilight

When lights that could be on are off and almost but not all is quiet

Dark is an unplugged Christmas tree, or a part-burnt candle unlit

Or when the power’s out and you throw a light switch

Eyes dead: that’s as dark as anything can get.


©2013 Jason Anderson


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