Poetry- Marcy Clarke


Winter is at our gate
and a dozen crows, like trespassing bandits,
raid our slumbering garden

The sun is a hard shadow bleaching bony limbs,
casting dull silhouettes on a sea of rustling leaves

and corduroy trousers, tucked in boots,
scatter crushed memories
filling the sky with gray notes whispering snow from the hills

Homesteaders, roots deep in the last century,
have already hung suet, like wind chimes, on knobby branches,
spread sunflower seeds for winter visitor...


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