We planted, we fertilized, we watered, they bloomed.
We did our part and now there is no part,
just the sorry stalks, the jaded bed, the sour
at the heart of even the sweetest william.
Winter is in ascendency. Our role is done.
The birds not only find slim pickings, they are slim pickings.
Their colors are finite, their tunes defer to survival’s songbook.
And the merest walk outside is on sufferance.
The air is thin and brittle, not fit for breathing.
We cling to our lodgings, the monotony of phony heat.
And then the clouds gray over, thick, shaped like tanks.
It’s snowing statues. And futility. A kind of death.
In the far fields, echoes hold their tongue, become visions,
harsh and chill-framed. The mind flat-lines. The heart withers.
The body stays behind, rounds up the details..
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