four months of november
my walk is measured by the fox trailthe tiny hooves of deer in deep wet snow
from afar a church bell tolls
its metal ring strange among the muted trees
a cloud settles slowly over spruce and pine
spreads her skirts and comes to rest
across the fox trail and tracks of dainty deer
and quiet, which is not exactly silent, falls
as darkened trees shake their limbs
and rid themselves of heavy snow
sometimes dropping it expertly inside my collar
for fun or out of spite is hard to tell
the tiny birds know what they know
and tell me in no uncertain, royal terms
as I disturb their busy day and have the nerve
to stop in my tracks to watch
take it easy little ones I am on my way
see, I am moving on and you are safe
yeah right and make sure you don't do it again
there, we told her, didn't we, and have I ever
you sure did, my dear, and I was going anyway
the wet stings my face and I want coffee
this February is too much November for my taste
and spring is near and yet so far.
Poetry by Åsa Andersson
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Written on 2014-02-02 at 11:14
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