The Hidden Springs
Dead half the year. Those smoke-gray days, I think
I’m broken on the wheel of fate, a fool
in borrowed robes. But not today: blue sky,
bright sun, dew sparkling underfoot. I drink
the light—to nourish my own darkness, pool
the hidden springs that murmur This is I.
Author: Thomas Zimmerman
Photo: Ochir-Erdene Oyunmedeg
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