Wednesday, March 22, 2017

panning for gold

panning for gold
on my knees along the bank
of the slow
moving stream.
my hands are cold.
red
and raw
from dipping the pan
into the clear
blue water.
I shake free the sand,
the pebbles,
I bite into anything shiny,
holding it up
to the harsh sun.
I've lived without love
before,
I can do it again.

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