December
Silver haired, the year
rests in the field.
Crows gather
on the sycamore bones.
The day is like glass.
Winter lurks
in the shadows.
In brittle glades,
papery pods protect
the last seeds.
Spiky coneflowers stand tall;
the goldfinches had their harvest.
Everywhere signs
of a cycle
fulfilled.
December 24, 2017
Copyright © Agnes Krampe | Year Posted 2017
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