Follow by Email

Tuesday, December 7, 2010


A dust of snow lies like  lint across  the landscape
landing lightly upon  wooden steps and  porch,
dusting  symbols of the season.
"Which season?" you ask. . .
The season of life.
 Its undefined edges
 inter-mingled like egg with nog,
legs swinging free in the evening air 
one moment,
then shivering beneath an aged coat 
the next.

1 comment:

mary said...

I like "landing lightly"