Winter has a different kind of wind.
It rips and strips everything soft.
Golden leaves
silver seed tufts,
runaway wrappers.
They all split and scatter
until all that remains are
trembling branches,
a sidewalk scrubbed raw,
and the cold.
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About Me
- Pie
- Here we are then, you and I. But that is not what you are asked. I want to know where you are going.
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