Winters echo
penetrating crisp
and hardy ground, cold
blinding sun
early as proverbial birds
humming, squinting
selfish new born fields
awash
with its bleach
and dewy flesh, I
wander the spiney woods,
the icy thin shell-like leaves,
stark and barely clinging
by their stiff, season worn tails.
Ahead the thin whispers of breeze
and endless footfall
over trodden dampness
where the sun misses all hours
yet still
leaves a fresh air
and humble fume to heed
the lungs and echo.