I had never seen
Lighthouse Hill
Through the lens
Of those withering branches
On a Sunday night
While driving
When our Christmas trees
Still glowed

In that winter cold
We’d shared
Before finding warmth
Now kindled
Beneath blankets
Made from flannels
Where speechless dreams
Held hands –

This living ash
With embers
Whose smoke was deemed
Too dangerous
As feelings plumed
Like chimneys
Giving meaning
To such air,

Though forsaken
Despite death
Hiding lamps
Between each forest
Sticking out
Above old buildings
Proving beacons
Fade so fast

If obscured
Among thick plants
Growing tall
Beyond all measures
Human eyes
Can barely witness
Staring down
An empty road.

Sometimes places
Won’t appear
Until love can shift
After fighting fears
More lonely
Leaving corners
Unexplored –

Never lost
But often found
Chasing whims
Thought unimportant
Soon defining God
Around us
Proving wishes
May come true,

Since tomorrow
Edges close
Placing gifts
Alongside ailments
Yet worth learning
Miracles happen
Only once
Before they fail.

  • J. Pigno

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