The Wren I

this warm rising

like breath could ever be cold

the song wren, wings outstretched 

bursting like blossoms—I had forgotten

not everywhere is covered 

in a white veil of death & drear

I listen, to all these morning songs, they are a sweet dream, waking

dawn punctures the fog’s lazy lung

the hiss of mist & slow dreams—

Coming off the quiet, this lovely soft light, 

All is haze & touch
The wren, settling on the orange tree, as all things burst & sing & dream. 

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