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One cannot not communicate. - First Axiom of Communication
The house is dispassionate in the granite-gray morning At hand are some boots and gloves and I take up their offer The woodpile sits stoically in the cold beside the house, waiting November air embraces my body and instructs my skeleton Bare trees disrobed from summer’s splendor stand reticent Birds bundle against the blue in lieu of flying for warmer climes Sky’s stiff and wind’s soaked with woodsmoke odes to home I steam along with the parade of pure-and-simple survival Timber limbers as it’s lugged away into the tepid house Bracing chill is with me still as I put the kettle on Trepidation in this moment is a far-off baying dog losing the trail Kindling alit soon sets tendril-wisps to dancing up the flue Ensconced silence sipped in the fire’s presence is a lesson Woodstove glowings in the gloom are hymns on the visible spectrum Signs of life expressed by my flesh and bones are an unseen rally My hopes incensed by piny effort are my rest and my arms’ load
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