Thursday, January 28, 2010

Quiet beauty, speaks the little English bird
to the caterpillar climbing the glittered leaf.
Unstated grace, through felt-tipped pen is heard,
questions pecking into thought and firm belief.

"Spring seems so far away" in January.
Inside and out turns blue with loss,
as the weight of the year it carries,
over Time's span, myself unable to cross.

And yet, handed peace, from the little English bird
now himself upon the glittered leaf.

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