Beautiful Cellar

Write in the cellar
Pens and frozen pipes
and roots,
to be something
planted in winter,
a hand-full, the weight of that
falled-apart finch
you picked-up, late summer –
remember?
your favourite tree?
You’re surprised, a
delicate word so airy
in your hand,
that one would write all night
to be picked again
and again.

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