THE GHOST RANGE - Poem
THE GHOST RANGE
.
.
It is always winter here,
A palette of gray and white,
And the shadows from a sun
Too far away to matter.
.
So much has been lost here.
Boats that were broken by waves,
Planes that coasted above it all
Until they no longer did.
.
Lives that began elsewhere
But ended here just as surely
As if in green fields with cenotaphs
Of marble, not granite.
.
And yet, there is a rock,
A house size boulder really,
That has been moving to the sea
For longer than I can remember.
.
It makes black a warm color
On the relentless white canvass,
A lost and then found item
Lovingly shepherded by the wind.
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