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January starts its journey
as a wet and sorry thing,
a limp balloon in a leafless tree
and a soggy bit of string
Sky
The sky has made her bed with the waves
together they tumble, windward blown
star crossed lovers, never alone
Dog
A poet finds no joy in errant words,
those misbehaving dogs  
which will not come to heel,
how can they delight us  
they may turn round and bite us
This turning year  
a child of war so newly born,
could we give it a day
to dream its infant dreams,
the simple gift of a little peace
apparently not, or so it seems
Unpolished Ink Dec 2024
Winter has decorum
unlike his sister Spring,
he is slow and ponderous
but she's a giddy thing
Unpolished Ink Dec 2024
There is no schism,
no gulf between the winter, fall, and spring
there is a reason for every season,
each takes the best
then adds to what the others bring
Unpolished Ink Dec 2024
We knit idyllic hopeful schemes
and fashion them as garments made from dreams
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