When the Fog Lifts
a little bird
of blue
holds the line
against the cold
wind
bobbing up and down
in waves
like a sailboat in the sea
looks down at the grass
still green for now
the turning of blades
the fall of leaves
puddles of glass
soon it’ll be hard
to find food
and shelter
and warmth
where will it go
when the rains come
crashing
and the trees in their tray
stand frozen
like sticks in slab
will it roam the sky
looking for the sun
and wake up one morning
in the stillness of a Sunday
and find it green
once more
TL