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  • Writer's pictureAmber

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The sun has slipped below the horizon line

and we retreat

Shut ourselves where artificial heat revives and warms us.

We prepare for the close,

For the countdown.

The wind skims trees and rooftops,

scoops branches in its arms and holds them

before releasing and rushing elsewhere. They sigh, their limbs bare.

Naked in the depths of the earth we huddle

Tangled in roots, dirt, darkness.

We ache for the lengthening of days and the promise of renewal.

But flickering in their thousands,

tiny lights beguile the night

And we don mirrors, reflections; we magnify their brightness.

The light shines in the darkness

and the darkness has not overcome it.

We await the dawn.

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