Tuesday, April 23, 2013

The Attic Chest

Winter winds the darkness
into the attic chest,
her cold bosom wrinkles
like a wind-blown river.
Wet snow sparkles
from tiny crevices,
trickles gently
like a mountain stream.

Autumn leaves coil
like a dancers ringlets
they twist and spin
like angel feathers,

I grasp the last one on the wind.                      

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