Notes on wintering
Feel the
days in ever-shift,
a moving
screen, unfiltered
tongue-tied
mornings lifting
skies that dream
eternal.
We tell ourselves
so many things,
how to be,
see, even grow.
Summer
passes too fast for us
and here we
are, wintering.
A squirrel
still searches for his tree
in the
garden’s empty spaces,
seeking a
god of nature erased.
We breathe
in patterns unrecorded,
never to be
repeated on loop.
These days
lift, full eyes wise,
birdsong a
cacophony of notes
we wish we
could decipher
only to
learn the secrets of flight
and the
resurfacing of spring.
Copyright Vickie
Johnstone, November 12, 2020
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