Winter Moth
 
A deranged sky, late November
 
Raindrops glisten the limbs of trees
 
Snow, the impossible dream
 
Archives of winter under my skin.
 
Let’s stay in tonight
 
Lay back the quilt, olives
 
A glass of cold beer
 
 
Let old leaves tell the story
 
They know the truth
 
What ripens late, what
 
A hurdle the change
 
From brown to white
 
 
What a hurdle the change 
 
From brown to white, wingless
 
Warm winter, a newly-splendored thing.
 
 
 
 
 

4 thoughts on “Winter Moth”

  1. The leaves are pretty much gone here in the Northeast, and my attention is drawn to those bare branches and, yes, the stories they tell. Everything seems so exposed, nothing hiding behind or under leaves. Your photos are all the more exquisite and enchanting on my new Macbook Pro (Retina display ;-).

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