19
Feb 14

Spring Weeding

Shush! It’s snow. Hush, i’m not going to bandy round bound by words. They’ve rusted shut. There’s crap waiting to be tapped. Silence rapped tight. Under ice a moving breeze might kick up a whisper here and there. Muffled tight against falling. Even a glass can’t touch this adamantine against Northern light. The pathology of being busy can only have a natural antidote.