Thelma Schiller

(Concrete, Washington)

Surviving The Storm

Along the foothills marsh-mists rise and fall;
Through glass I see their trail of fog across
The window-sky and sense a coming squall.
The leaves of shadow-deer and pine now toss
And curl around my shaky beach-craft words.
Alone at summer's end...limned sea waves roll
And ice-glass glaciers flash like slashing swords.
How store away this year...this summer scroll?

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