Solitary mortals blaze so bright
dancing through the bitter night.
Beacons blue with pain,
broken strands of DNA
or jewels in the wilderness
trying to connect the dots
into a merry necklace?
The Year is old,
seeping away alone and cold,
face down, skirts up on a park bench.
Poor bag-lady, she’s undone,
waiting for the dawn of a waning sun.
The sky is falling, turning greens to gray
as the child climbs up the hill to pray.
The Purple Hermit 