I walk on a scattering of clouds.
Trees, in the absence of birds, chirp,
while, in the absence of leaves,
something small, brown, and seemingly
windblown, whisks just above the frozen ground,
till, catching a rutted stump,
it shows one beetle-bright eye, grey
My thumbs in their solitary sleeves of mitten
beg to cede their opposition
to all other digits, to join
Only the stump stays stalwartly itself,
Another little poem about cold, belatedly posted for With Real Toads Tuesday platform. (In the photo, which is mine, and taken at a different time than thoughts for the poem–so doesn’t really fit it–you can see three deer.)
Also, apparently some bloggers from blogger are having a hard time posting comments. Please do let me know if you have any difficulty. I’ve tried to go into my settings to at a minimum re-save them, but don’t know if that is doing anything. Thanks.
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