Coldwater Morning

The crimson birds flit

From stem to branch

In the bright, brittle morning.

Across the gentle slope behind

A fine sheet of frost

Glows faint like a ghost

Disappearing into mist

In the rays of the silent sun.


Who can pass into such evanescent perfection

And touch the flight of the cold, red birds

And skate above the crystal carpet

Even as it vanishes, like a breath?


copyright 2017

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