It’s not the falling flakes that halt me
but the quick gust that kicks them,
not tenacity of brown leaves clinging to the branch
but how the white shawl settles there,

not blackness bleeding on the porous page of the world
but the sponge of light that catches it,
not the hard, slick ground
but its gradual softening

so my every step leaves
an imprint that will only
last so long.Image

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1 Response to Flurries

  1. Reblogged this on The Real McCoy and commented:
    This one belongs in both blogs, perhaps–a peace poem and a winter poem.

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