Walk around town singing.
Is Wassail a cup? The days
are cold as buried iron but
watch the light advance by
minutes every day. For six
months sun will be a gift.
Lie with your chest facing
the stars. Breathe air
sweet with pine. Snow
angels come alive.
Last week they flew.
This poem feels ‘episodic’ to me, as if some images were strung together. The Snow Angels should, I think, be a point around which the images are located. Could the snow angels take form and walk the town?
Very episodic, like my mind.
Sent from my iPhone
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