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Poetry

12/07/2016

Photo by Design Pics

West Coast Christmas

A deep charcoal comes with dusk
as winter drizzles along these
streets of trinkets and fool’s gold
in this colony of doubt.
I’m chilled to the bone.
Then I see high on a
snow-topped mountain,
just above the tree line,
flickering in the dark —
a fire burning by rock face.
Somewhere between
that hikers’ camp and
this falling rain
a carol comes,
calls me to turn east,
cross the stone bridge,
slip through the open door,
and settle on the
pew of hope,
between the crib
and the cross.

By Michael Dallaire