Monday, March 5, 2018

MY EYES ARE A CAMERA, a poem



Icy tunneled roadways
give shelter from wintry winds
where tousled, snow-fingered limbs
harbor iced patterns
on fragile leaves
yet to fall off armies of trees.
A tree-lined lake        
mirrors blue and gold
(ice and sun).
The brightest star shines
higher than its counterpart,
(a quarter moon). At night,
moonlight showers
are white-gold
like a husky’s fur.
In the woodland,
early spring moves slap-dash
through a running brook.
At dusk, birds share
bounteous feeders.
New snowflakes fall
on the frozen ground.
At the roadside,
snow-capped mailboxes
and snow-shelves
bank along the passageways.
 
by
Patricia Crandall
 

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