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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 52

One Waits

How long does one wait
under gray skies and early dusk
For dawn to dawn the light
of the next day?

How long can one anticipate
that cresting of the horizon
when rays, radiate
icicles, like fragile fingers
hanging from
the naked branches
of shivering fir trees?

In the desperate winters
of our time
it is not god;
but those who wait— waiters
for the warmth of the sun
those who
despair
during the
dead winters
who can bring the
sun of spring.

  Anthony Squiers