Last day of February, flakes
fall like cotton balls. Behind
the clouds, the sun-ghost
presses its linen shroud,
winter weeks still weighting
the eaves’ edges until
they come: bluebirds pinwheel
around the gutter, splash
shoulders, ears, eyes,
bluer than blue against
the thick white sky.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 6.
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