25.10.08

Winter morning

Each blade of grass is trapped,
Encased in an ice prison.
The sun is still low.
The tress smile toothlessly,
Over their dominion.
A low breeze cuts icily through everything.
The world,
Asleep in it’s bed,
Begins to stir.
It feels the unrest,
Of the turning seasons.
The grass remains trapped.

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