The sound. It is painful here.
The gray world turns ice to ice.
Rain from the sky fall hard as stones
and cluster over the ocean,
silvering with cold white.
The wind is never light -
its density pounds the land.
It eternally howls
about the zero
the negative
the never was
the naught.
The wind demands a mountain
to stop it from its path.
Not this emptiness
more vast than itself
Endlessly spreading
in the absence of desire.
September 20, 2005. This one's older than this blog.
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