Ritual
When on the land lie only freckles of white,
and the river is no longer curdled;
when cold light lets on a suspicion of warmth,
and earth’s implied irises wait to meet our eyes’,
we will find our hibernating footprints,
remembered by a quartet of different-tempered browns,
ready to be sown anew
with a new spring in our steps,
still four abreast.
Copyright © Bernard Chan | Year Posted 2019
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