One of the old Olympians holding
the winds in a bag. "Like hell!"
screams the grass, and is promptly
crushed. Tumble down, December,
tumble out, 'til my feet crunch
and my eyes go bleary blue.
Outside, all is frosted earth and
snap-dried leaves in red and gold.
I wonder if the plants have a
doctrine of the resurrection of the
flesh, or is it more like the
Wheel of Samsara?
Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh,
but today I don't see it, and
the sun is white and far away.
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