January 451 (Mid-Winter Thaw)

Wet pavement glistens
an unnatural rainbow
of indigo, ultramarine,
emerald and gold,
an oily borealis
shimmering in dull light.
Clouds hang low,
a heavy poultice
on a bruised world.
Thin pink strata
presage the night,
flaring to orange
like the glow
of a wildfire
beyond the horizon.
The heart burns
hotter than paper.
Sleep is not death.
A poem is not a kiss.

Page 37 from my book (for sale) Memories of When We Were Birds



About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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