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




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

Author: Michael Kloss

There is a Sunday conscience, as well as a Sunday coat; and those who make religion a secondary concern put the coat and conscience carefully by to put on only once a week. - Charles Dickens

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