At the base my window
The winds whisper to paper grass,
While a Redpoll quakes mechanically.
Pine cones and cocooned
Dreams drift in debrised snow.
All can be seen.
At the base of a season,
The black spruce frond hovers
Turning away from frothy winter.
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 7:29 PM UTC
At the base my window
The winds whisper to paper grass,
While a Redpoll quakes mechanically.
Pine cones and cocooned
Dreams drift in debrised snow.
All can be seen.
At the base of a season,
The black spruce frond hovers
Turning away from frothy winter.
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