crooked

The summer sheds its bones
Our eyes are far; our hearts are close
This life is poetry, imperfect plain and beautiful
We build a home amid the words spilling from our lips
Cold winds steal this city's leafy overcoat
Each blustery day a little thief
And the trees' charred black, broken, barren fingers hold my head

and stroke my hair

and from it gently pull my tangled dreams of sun
and they weave me a woolen hat made all of snow
that only makes me colder
but keeps me safe and sound
as the winter sidles in and wraps us both
in blinding skies and lonely songs.





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