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Thursday, September 5, 2019

Avalanche in the Alps (Philippe de Loutherbourge), Sonnet #474

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.








Each avalanche is renewal.
At times men or whole forests die
When mountainsides shudder and fall
In great slabs and showers of scree.
A single step’s been known to start
A cataclysm, one small stone
Displacing another and one
Larger opening up a fault.
What’s left is a new rapprochement
With gravity, rearrangement
Of the ageless, immovable 
Granite face and tiny pebble.
Never, though, is any grandeur
Made — all things go through the grinder.

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