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After the Fall
by Mary Langer Thompson

I'll take my snow still,
on a Sunday morning,
trees, steeples behind houses,
icicles aimed to pierce the earth.
Icy gargoyles hover over the
path where I kneel,
the stained glass blue lake
a window to the deep.
Tonight even the moon
will shine white.


by Mary Langer Thompson

This fog doesn't come in
on little cat feet,
but begins as a murky mist
that encircles and confronts
like a white tiger
before springing and pouncing
atop our path.

I walk through the
milky primordial soup
traveling through
one cloud cuckoo land
of uncertainty
into another.

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