Bitten
By the sodden taste of Winter.
It’s the dawn
Of another false Spring.
Twilight
In an empty room.
Snowdrops
Not yet bloomed.
And Bluebirds dance
Above Winters’ tomb.
Somewhere
A smokey harvest moon,
Hangs in the Eastern sky.
Heralds
A sycamore cyclone.
Quieter than silence.
© M. H.
