“Thruway Apple Trees” — C.Birde, 3/17

Softly,

softly,

the mist descends —

coils,

enfolds.

Veil of furred-moisture.

The world at large

slips

from sharp-edged

focus.

Hills to be climbed

are reduced to

dream;

Trees to

breath

suspended.

— C.Birde, 3/17