The finch and frost

The finch and the frost

argue sharply

through my senses

over what season it is

 

I can count stars

as they fade, one by

one, in the growing glow

 

The finch’s appeal is full and crisp

So too the air

my breath lingers

not ready to exit

 

It is the spring, one sings

It is winter, insists the other

Clutching at my warmth

pinching my flesh between heavy fingers

brushing my cheeks with rose

 

Trying to communicate to my very bones

marrow, that the finch is out of place

that it’s jumped its cue

 

The high chortle, the 3 note pulse

of early morning song

pierces deeper

to mind and memory

 

Of a life lived amidst the evergreens

where the chortle stands amid my perception

of the world

 

I’m not deceived

the long reach of Hades

as loosened

weakened

dying

 

tis the finch I hear

singing in joy

for spring, as sprung its hiding place

and stands ready

 

to lead us to the feast of summertide

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