Sunday, February 28, 2021

poem

 Bare

There is an austere beauty

In the winter woods;

Naked trees pinned

Into modest rolling hills
Sheathed by dead sodden

Leaves woven into the damp loam.


My son strips off his shirt,

For some reason,

And sprints along the muddy path.

He doesn’t see yet

How much room

He actually has to roam.


2/28/21

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