Moon, Star, Handprint
by Meg Smith
Come to the cave of welcomes.
A new sun is waiting.
The air rushes, warm, among grasslands.
A gathering is called in their finery,
to bear witness to a great, new light.
But the air begins to fall —
a breath of something like winter
forming a thin colony at the entrance.
Prayers for harvest and help
might answer — or may slumber
beneath low, weeping clouds.
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