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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