Monday, February 19, 2007


Waiting clouds slope northward
Carded smooth by a warm south breeze.
The sun wades through them punching tickets
Paid in silver linings, sends them on their way
Back to winter, leaving blue between.
A robin waits brown in brown grass,
Looks at me with eyes that know
The crucible cooling, darkness fading.
The smell of spring waits in the air,
A smell of softer, brighter gray.

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