The frost, of course
and its fine script on the windows.
The fall of snow dusting hunched shoulders
of tall green centurions, with their orders.
The holly and ivy of course,
with berries red as a child’s crayons.
The imprints of tracks, of course,
impress of feet, what stories there.
The scrawl of chimney smoke, of course,
across the blank slate of sky.
A vee of geese, of course,
erratic letters telling of change.
Ice in the streams, of course,
chalk on stones, on beaver dams,
And me trying to read the lacy hand
of that window message,
a tale that needs a translator
or at least a transliteration.
–Photographer unknown (weheartit.com)
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