Adrift among the falling flakes
that swirl around so breezily
I’m grounded by increasing aches
which seem to spring too easily
from weathered, sometimes droopy limbs
stripped bare of all embellishment
that reach, as visibility dims
for root embracing firmament
but only flounder worriedly
in much more whiteness than it takes
to cover up quite hurriedly
this least divine of all mistakes.
Are You Reading Me?
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