Winter Is Not Forever
Scrape, bye ; The Calendar
ticks with no inky point,
segments broken into
whatever minuet, or waggle
and slithers of whats left for you.
You can gaze through,
honey coombes yellow
along a long one way troop
of seedless sunflowers,
their low heads hung,
corroded and long Bee,d.
Winter in broken boxes
spilt, blind, even,
warm to strangers
Spring a season of
Infinite meaning,
Based, on nothing
but the viewpoint of a Bee.
13/7/21
Copyright © John Lusardi | Year Posted 2021
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