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Sunrise, by Sharmagne Leland-St. John
The Gift
by Michael Escoubas
Looking only
on the surface of things–
at the frosty shrubs,
snarling black clouds
gusty, wind-blown sky,
the snow-powdered winding lane,
where black ice hides,
poised to help a fall–
one may miss
sun’s timely rise.
One must look
a little deeper
a little longer–
for without the bruising
and the blisters bruising brings,
there can be no gift
no new day
to massage away the pain.
Nature’s metaphor
always in season.
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