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Friday, January 15, 2010

On January 12 Medus'a Kitchen published the following


(For Joyce Odam)

The winters here are mostly damp.

The days are grey. They form a camp.

A great and endless fog commands,

All thick and dense, a gauzy stamp.

This weather makes its own demands.

The days are ghosts with oak tree hands.

The morning and the evening change

Without a sound, their cold, white plans.

There is no landscape. All is strange,

Fog cattle grazing shadow range.

There is little here of any sun

To make a mark or rearrange.

A cloistered time. Each day a nun.

A silent time. A seamless one.

We speak another language; one

That quiets time, as days pass, stunned.

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