(READ ALL TIM LABBE POEMS)
Hollow winds
blanket
a gray
barren grove.
Harvest’s dried
remnants
scurry
frenziedly.
Their last
impoverished,
bleak, brown
meaningless
dance of death.
Clouds drape
from the
heavens,
appear as
soot,
raining down.
Virgin-pure
naïve palette,
now
a scarred
stained canvass
Winter’s anxious
hard frost
will soon press
against raw,
exposed flesh.
Piercing
our tender
frost-bit
mortality
awaiting the
thaw of
another
mortal season.
by
Tim Labbe
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