An Ode to Winters Bough

So there I am,
walking up a hill
and trying desperately not to slip
on my face now numb
to the kiss of this arctic winter wind,
when the sun,
reaching for my gaze behind branch and nest,
catches me in its net of self affirming brilliance.
I am, all at once,
dazed by my own
inadequate
stupidity
that says I know it all
when clearly I know
next to nothing
that I should be lost in such mundane
when above my head
is the regality of the heavens.
Ah sweet rays,
that take my heart
and cradle my joy
as though nursing
a new born leaping lamb.
I am but known
by what I am,
and what I am
is but known by these moments
of sheer
and unadulterated
blinding light.


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