That Old, Familiar Blur

white sun in blue sky

Sometimes good poems just occur, but rarely to me. Nothing astounding here, but it happened:


My eyes settle in to that

old, familiar blur.

Running without lenses,

willing my ankle to be sure.

Feeling naked in the sunlight,

shoulders and shins exposed.

Can we now be fairly certain

the winter season’s fully closed?

I see warm people on green grass; it seems

Winter was only supposed.


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