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John Muro

Here, the morning sky appears

like a mosaic of colored glass

assembled by the trembling

fingers of sabal palms, then

lightly polished and pressed into

a thin-set of Biscayne blue. Low

clouds stretch in afterglow across

the horizon like long-tailed macaws,

and everywhere there’s a gross

profusion of blossoms and tangled

shoals of under-leaf, enveloping

a world still coveting summer and

overrun with scents of fresh citrus,

clove and a pleasurable alchemy

of salt mingled with the damp tang

of ash. Stranded here, I’d gladly

risk losing this artifice of malarial

light, and embrace a world and

weather in free fall, many miles

distant and weighted with darkness,

where bare boughs stand deep in

shadow and you can lose yourself

in sweater-cold air that is grizzled

with frost and woven like corn-

silk into the very fabric of things,

and all light is forever fading

and serves to illuminate only what

has been lost or remains absent.

Author, Poet, Writer, American, Indian Australian writers
John Muro
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