Moments We Do Not Bleed
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Snow laying casual on tree-branch fingers
suddenly startled, falls to the ground,
beaten to its refuge by a bullet wearing blood.
A small disturbance we call hunting.
Our youth in eagerness spreading
to cover in life what we cannot touch in death.
Surrendering moments we do not bleed
to spread like slow molasses
over brittleness of bone;
melting snow, evaporating rain,
growing less eager to conquer,
moving to a place of understanding,
borrowed from a time we do not own.
Now, a missing moment of time arrives
and you are here to greet it.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
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