No snow.
You see a real
cardinal on the trail
on your birthday in the last month
of this
warped year.
Red light flashing
everywhere, nowhere to
go, the slower the pendulum
swings. Let’s
call it
lento. Let’s pause
to notice the hidden
truth—stray mountains of dirty snow
leave proof
of odd
October storms,
escape the thaw. No, let’s
call it rubato. How we’re all
stealing
time. Born
into one of
the darkest nights to one
of the darkest days in this, the
darkest
of years,
these latest fall
babies brood all the way
open. Not even winter yet.
The wait
to hear
it loud and clear,
December girls, not boys,
sing a subtler perched beauty one
branch up.
Rhymes! Love this, Amy
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A happy accident. Thanks, Tom!
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