those little habits
a thumb rubbing a finger
seasons rolling on
those little habits
a thumb rubbing a finger
seasons rolling on
embers of summer
glaring red beneath the snow
ice-crusted petals
how unexpected
a lovely gift from a friend
happy memories
the darkening sky
promises a fresh snowfall
on those red berries
got up at seven
wrote sixty-eight syllables
it’s now nine nineteen
during this cold snap
our car sits encased in ice
fingers turning blue
dawn sky turning gold
a squirrel frolicks above
two sleeping pigeons
a frost-nipped morning
a bra hangs stiff on the line
robin redbreast chirps
shadows amongst the twigs
the dark shapes of roosting birds
early morning fog
before the snow fell
a cold moon cast rainbow rings
on a ruined town
I dream so I write ..
“Wings are an illusive notion. Some may possess them, but they are not very visible, and as for me, there isn’t the least sign of a feather.” -Amy Carmichael
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