poetry & things

Winter park

In this park there are birds atop ice cakes

stiff mittened kids, cold nosed and half froze

they slide on paths of glass, toward home.

A small stream cuts through this place,

black water, humming with coots and ducks.

Long toothed icicles waiting to impale the earth,

beneath our feet, we crack and shatter tiny frozen ponds,

revealing muddied blades of grass, green as in summer.

A myriad of birds in the sun, come to puff and quiver,

but soon the mountain clouds will come to shroud

the day, the sky, so cold, a frost in grey and silver.

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