Spring, Weed, and Finding a Path

A Poem by Michael H. Brownstein

Soon rivers will be hidden behind a gasp of trees,
Leaf will waken to the ends of wind,
And the ground will thicken into grass and turbulence.

A rising sun, wine red, like the brilliance of Torah,
Weaves strings of cloud into footpaths,
Avenues of bright blue across the water.

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