#126 (between tender plumage)

moss-forest
photo credit: Matthias Geh

 

allegedly

we dreamt of spring

while cutting blocks of black ice

forming clusters of coldness

until our fingers gave in

to numbness

and within our aching bones

the seeds of fever started to bloom


the flowers of our anticipation

withered away like

the last seconds of daylight

being replaced by

the prospect of obscurity

and a sudden dread


I wished

I was a bird of passage

gliding by

carrying the stories

of the Southern Wind

between tender plumage

ignorant of the dark calls

the night had left as a gift


6th February
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