Three Hundred Thirteen

There’s a chill in the quiet early morning air; the trees warm themselves under a patchwork quilt of their few remaining leaves. Later, when the sun rises and brings a light breeze, I imagine the rustling of leaves and branches is the trees shivering, the way I do when I cast off the comforter and feel the goose-flesh on my skin.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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One Response to Three Hundred Thirteen

  1. jserolf says:

    This poetry!!!

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