Laden with frost the leaves pluck themselves
swept aside as compost for use
somewhere else, some other time
spindling branches left to reach
stiff and waiting for spring
Diffuse unfurling hothouse flower
warm in the crooks of necks and knees
swelled pupil all too present
mingling fresh laid to rest
slaked of its own merit
People not as seasons divided
but one is as all observing,
hushed and waiting, slipping - by
small tendrils that soft unveil
those most exposed moments
[2023-11-20]
