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Some days the sun seems unable to lift itself, scudding Not far from the horizon in the clouds presaging sleet And freezing rain. It breaks through, briefly, but seems misshapen. There's a cross-cross here and a cross-cross there; here a cross There a cross, everywhere a cross-cross. Forgive me, Father, I mimic the chickadee's winter wit. I turn darkness? Three crows on a maple?into two robbers and your son.

Fourteener 322 (Thank You, Dear Lord, for This Long, Cold, Dark Time of Inwardness)