Photo by Janina Winkler on Unsplash
Tilting, lilting, she
with every step upon us
spreads her frozen flush.
Tip-toed over, we
crisp from cold and shiver
in the autumn dwindle, sliver.
Blossom to barren, be
trees crackle under sunrise
the grasses, yellowed, die.
About the Creator
Lark Hanshan
A quiet West Coast observer. Writing a sentence onto a blank page and letting what comes next do what it must.
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