Sleep calls.
shapes of rabbits,
by wry coincidence,
seen in the ceIling cracks
or walls. . .

Shadows beckon
of next spring,

while we are still here

in hopes our next snowflake
to glance, to lick,
our next snowball to fling,
and see if it breaks up,
rebounds, or sticks
to what it hits.

Season plump
with dark and night
and crisp point stars
works in our favor,

come time
the bed and our own breath
to savor,
and then,
sweet sleep
will soon be ours.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Seasons, Spring, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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