|Oct/Nov 2015 Poetry|
Image courtesy of NASA and the University of Arizona
A forest with many many lonely standing birch,
paper bark, whirligigs and piebald leaves filling the
shallow ruts of mysterious roads passing among the trees.
Egg white clouds drift the clear blue sky,
while you and I drag kites through the cold winter's air, air.
Her children are both delicate.
I hear they
write poems on milk white birch bark
in the dead of winter.