Cold, Bright

You sit in the cold sun
Stock still.
Sure somehow that if you remain here
long enough,
you will find warmth,
that spring will return
before you die
and you will dance again in the moonlight,
a wild animal no longer wounded
but created anew,
a miracle
of joy.

About this poem

It’s out there. It’s in here. It comes when we allow it. Joy.

Tom