well, this is how it has been for a spell
the cobweb-festooned lungs of the frosted swallow
nesting in the corners and ridges of a hollow oak
a place of safety in tones of lonely cyan and frozen smiles
please
she has struggled to emit ballads of spring's beginnings
amongst the ambers of autumn's changes and endings
please
plant a miniature sprout of armistice into her ashen feathers
a gradual woodland of softly moving joys in her blood