Wither

Late winter, cold and brisk,
Breaths billowing like small clouds—
A cold gale snatches them away,
Like a covetous thief, hungry.

Bare trees stand skeletal and lonely,
Against a dirty suburban landscape.
A bough snaps like an electric crack,
Breaking under such frigid pressure.

The frost melts with time—
Even the most unyielding thaws.
Peace arrives in a green bud,
Flourishing on a single branch.

2 thoughts on “Wither

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