sparrow song

old man winter
                   (silent but heavy-footed)
rifles through his ammunition
  and barrages us with gales and lighting.
we are sparrows
                    braving winter’s tempered knuckles,
only to cave to
                 butterflies and primroses mixing potent
                 in our warm bellies.

we lay,
       – hearts flitting, beating brittle wings –
in the only spot winter
    has not yet stumbled upon.

your profile reminds me
                   of the eastern coast
and i find myself in libraries
                     and book stores,
running my fingers along atlas pages

                                  imagining.

(eye to telescope:
                          winter now has both eyes closed)

we were accidental
         our grey that took over the world
              i nestle into sea-cliffs
and wait for summer to change our colour

copyright, as always.

the journal may have to wait another two months. apologies.

perhaps my muse has returned. 3 weeks, counting down. xo;