seasons of writing

red pages slipping from between my fingers
words found and, unspoken, forgotten.
my unlikely muse went to sleep
as did the ghosts of old days.
so many leaves to turn
from golden red to yellow on the trees
autumn came
with force
winter will trample snow from its boots
shivering mitten-clad hands will take off the woolen knitted word hat
exhaling letters written on crisp violet pages by the fireplace.
cold roads, white walls
a room of square folios in pale spring green

delivered to my wooden heart.

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