Here, right here,
in the small of the year,
the prickliest sand
dries the swells of land.
Winter cannot compare
to this small that crowds the air:
there are no walls,
no wood-int-thoils to call;
there is no inside,
nor where in which to hide;
the skin is flaked,
the sinking lake unslaked;
the small gathers round,
the inflicted hunker down,
and the edges of the earth rush in.
But in daring to crack,
the supple heart heaves back,
for the biting sear
is the small of the year,
and the larger returns,
and never through its turn
will the edges of the earth rush in.
After eons it will come
the next season of the sun.
It will come and save
and lift us up over the wave
’til the edges of the earth rush in.
If you enjoyed this, please buy me a coffee!
Joe Spring writes 