Saturday, February 5, 2011

When It Comes

"When you are a poet, you are a poet first.
When it comes, it's like an
May Sarton

Blue sky above, but heavy fog blanket covers ridge line. Valley clear. Clouds moving quickly, right to left. Wild air show...The sun is there, behind all the fog. Brightly burns my eyes. Will it break through?
Very windy... Clouds engulf me... wet... fantastic. Come out, oh sun.

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