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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