Poets' Practice Pad

Winter Flight

The wind that shapes my words
brings me up
over the bony trees
and white-washed land;
the ice on the pond
with an ingénue face
tightened around the rim
reflects fragments of the sky
through the arc of my flight.

Searching for the secret map
of rebirth, I chirp as I fly,
hoping to turn the soul
inside out
to own up to my yearnings,
inaudible though
my tune may be.




Sig by karjia96

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