Above us, wintry skies whisper
snow-sugared, gradual shifts
– it’s just a phase you’re going through.
Seeping blackness, the moon moves
through Earth’s shadow, orbital mechanics
foreshadowing apocalypse.
There is no man,
& you are not made of cheese,
but my polyphonic heart still sings with the wolfpack.
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Latest posts by Jane Ayres (see all)
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