in which all turns

for a creature is in the soil

burrowing for something,

tossing without sense and

scampering, whimpering;

 

and sun is shining so finely

on leaves which hang

like fragile hankerchiefs

in an endless warmth;

 

then birds gather us up

in a sky become laden

with tears, though rain

brings little relief.

 

words are wrung out,

we see a winter and

we nest, for peace.

All turns

 

Copyrighted by the author

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