Etching

I shut my eyes, in prayer
and it is winter here —
my toes are cold, but
where I go in my dreams

isn’t like here. Instead
hills abound, mountains,
flowers fill in every inch
not one patch is starved.

All feelings heightened
to love, with warmth and joy.
There is no sorrow
or darkness on the hunt.
The light endures there
beyond anything once put out.

[casted in Sonnet’s favored pentameter, enjambment when fitting. Stanzas following the octave and sestet stencil]

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