Looking through a window
at the falling snow flakes.
Silent is the snow fall
that piles upon my sill.
And though it weighs limbs down,
it doesn’t break the branches.
If there were a slight breeze,
it’d dust it all away.
Out beyond the farm land,
in the distant forest,
lies the kind of wildness
that’s silent at the bone.
good one!
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Thanks.
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