Strange Writing
Comments 2

For the Wild Ones

my boots crunch the icy snow
coating the narrow path
I trudge, dragging a
pale, brittle evergreen
still dotted with bits of orange

I pause, looking for the right spot
as my breath curls up in
an ivory plume
propping the evergreen up
against a tall proud oak

orange slivers glimmer with
honey and seeds in the
amber sunlight
the sky burns tangerine
scarlet, under the cover of
thick coal clouds

framed by tangled bare branches
like the stained glass of a
wild pagan church

I perch on a stump to watch
a few cardinals land
not the red ones that parade
outside my kitchen window

but the brown ones
with only a touch of color
now darting among the
new branches for
food and shelter

I can’t linger long
the air is heavy with the scent
of weather turning
little balls of ice
bounce and tinkle
off the branches overhead

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