Heavy he hangs on the moon of my mind
behind year's end clouds
moving cross winds over the ocean
like this one here
Asbury Park, December.
In Pennsylvania,
he climbs toward Pinnacle peak
and thinks of himself, stubborn
as a mountain
and my clinging softness as the moss
under glided hand.
Trust, we do, in these hours of reflection
for the ever-shifting earth will ease us
toe to toe
once more
and forever.
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