Not rutabaga - but rooted, with bright white flesh and greens: the turnip
A place to gather words before they get lost.
Not rutabaga - but rooted, with bright white flesh and greens: the turnip
Dawn, on a clear day, breaks so gentle, unfolding in iridescence
Boreas howling, as if a tempest – a rush of mythical wind
We wait beneath dusk for moon rise – a slow turning toward heavenly eyes
Their sticky fingers find each other, covered in pine sap and needles
The cold wind's bitten our fingers, wrapped in mittens, but never enough
Despite Autumn's change, one tiny flower endures; act of resistance
Time seems elusive when the hands of the small clock bend themselves backwards
for Algot
Sheets of frozen rain, falling like knives, inflicting pain – we dread the sleet
Last night's storm winds have cleared the trees, blown free the leaves, and still this morning, as the winds take leave, I can hear branches groaning and moaning about the loss of cover, like a blanket, stolen, from a spurned lover