in white, the sun golden
contained in the sky.
The branches naked,
still the haunts
of the Holy Ghost passing by.
I sit in the contentment
and discontentment of being
mix-blooded,
human and divine,
longing and desiring --
that blood flowing through me
I can choose to deny
but still keeps me alive.
The sun has found the snow:
how the two seem to fit just so.
What is possible is simply
possible in the eternity
called now.
-Byron Hoot
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