February 26, 2015

©Kathleen Moors

©Kathleen Moors

Biting wind
an open field,
a blanket of
crusted waves.
White undulating
over an expanse
of frozen brown grass.

Down in the flats
the white is cake icing,
untouched, pure,
slathered onto
a sheet of dark ice.

I have to squint my eyes.
A tear runs down my cheek,


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