The winter trees
Stand as sentenils,
Their bare branches
Sheltering those
Who cannot leave.

I hear the sparrow’s trill,
The chipping marble-sound
of busy cardinals at dawn,
and I shake off the North wind.

I know what it is
to miss the changing palette
of sky, and the thrumming
of morning
pushing past the night.

 

 

Art: Windsor Forest dawn 2016 by Virginia Galfo