Day Thirteen
Day ThirteenBlood, bone, flesh chilling18 degreesNo wind to speak ofComplete silenceAs the snow falls and landsBecoming oneWhite soft blanketing.A few sapsucker loosened Maple twigsSome Brown brittle leavesCrushing ever hopeful moderate green mossOver matted muted grassRooted in volcanic clay soilBecoming oneWhite soft blanketing.