The silent era

Dead reeds

cry a fall silent

rustle at last

sun looms

finally spills through

iron clouds

timelapsed

as short roots

compose

squirm into spring

gather

exact lines, momentary

colors

leaves and grass

arc and snap back

I stood with them

finally immutable

unthinkingly alive

but a rub to colliding

strata and quarms

untractable and unnamed

heralds of the winds

untimed movements

traces by some trees

unstudied, loveless.

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