less than 1 minute read

During the second spring,
gorse opened exploratory
canary buds, lending
a perfume of coconut
to apathetic winds.

The ground slept, twitched.
A faint to forget
the warmest year.

I shuffle in enforced
slow motion decay,
rusty wool wrapping me.

Under the frozen pond
scored with desire lines
of dreaming crystalline-
slight flutters, small hearts.

I see needles made swords
spring slumbering under frost
Buds now fading suns.



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