stoics
a faded dry sky
this desert breathes barren --
soft colors delude
in this harshness
parched, water mere memory
to drink from this ocean of dust,
bright sun sears bleached bones,
beating dead horses,
boiling blood from the living.
this is extreme
the sun, glaring heat,
crumbling in night's brittle clear
a place for the stoic,
the silent survivors,
grown skilled in the business of living,
sparse sketches in faded-earth hues,
and silence awaiting
the coming of gathering clouds.
Jon Bohrn (1999)

 

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