Between two days
cutting like slivers of ice,
the warmth of bird song.
The thin snow awaits
its transformation into
spring's rippling streams.
Hand-sawn, fresh split, stacked:
maple, apple, pine, and birch
. . . but for next year.
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I am waiting for you. Where do you wait? In Florida with retirees? South along the Gulf of Mexico? All the way home to sunny Mexico? Is anyo...
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restless edgy achy from the wait time to unfurl sprout feel the sun shine
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