From the Book of Winter

Mid March and I count four robins and a woodpecker
And yesterday I heard a cardinal in full voice.
No one knows how heavy the pages of winter are
But it is the birds that fly out of the last.

Nothing better than this anonymity.
All my observations are like a mirror
In which I can celebrate nature in myself.

Today the rain turned into snow
And back into rain so subtly
That no one seemed to notice
The fragile glass work of the moment.

3 thoughts on “From the Book of Winter

  1. really beautiful; ‘The fragile glass work of the moment.’ – wonderful line – shines its lights back up through the poem


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